


Courting Chaos (One Day at a Time)

by Ellory



Series: Pureblood Wizarding Culture [25]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Aristocracy, Blood Magic, Dark Harry Potter, Dark Magic, F/M, Female Harry Potter, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Genderbending, Matriarchal society, Murder, Pureblood Culture, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Stalking, Time Travel, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-05
Updated: 2017-09-05
Packaged: 2018-12-24 06:55:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 25
Words: 56,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12007428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ellory/pseuds/Ellory
Summary: Pureblood vignettes of various pairings. Feel free to leave a request.





	1. Gen: Harry raises Teddy as his son.

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to make a pairing request/prompt when you leave a review.

Harry Potter didn’t want to leave Potter Manor. He had been holed up for the past five years, ever since the war ended when he vanquished Voldemort. He hadn’t left the grounds for any reason; that’s where house-elves came in handy. And much to his friends’ annoyance, he hadn’t allowed any visitors either.

“Daddy!”

Laughing, Harry scooped the reason for his self-isolation up in his arms. James Sirius Potter—once Teddy Lupin—meant more to him that anything. Following the final battle, Harry had fled to his godson’s secret location and performed a ritual to adopt him. He knew firsthand the pain of mutilated and frayed mental bonds, and he wouldn’t let Teddy, now James, experience it longer than was absolutely necessary.

“Hello, James,” said Harry. He kissed the ebony black hair that was identical to his own, grateful that the blood adoption had eliminated the Metamorphmagus gene. He didn’t want anyone to know who James’s parents had been. Being part werewolf, though he didn’t exhibit any of the traits, would lead to bullying and discrimination. Harry wasn’t going to let that happen. As far as James was concerned, Harry was his father and his mother had died birthing him.

“I’m five now!” James exclaimed. He held a hand out and wiggled all of his fingers, as if Harry didn’t know. He was always so rambunctious. Harry never wanted that to change; he didn’t want James’s eyes—also identical to his own—to fill with shadows and horrors.

“You’re such a big boy,” Harry teased. He tickled James with one hand, and kept a firm hold on him with the other. It had taken a while for him to become accustomed to holding James without worrying that he would drop him. He had eventually gotten the hang of it, though.

“We’re going to Diagon Alley!” James yelled. He threw his arms around Harry’s shoulders and hugged him tightly.

Harry swallowed, regretting the promise he had made to his son. He didn’t want anyone to find out about James. Surely, some people would attempt to kidnap him just for being Harry Potter’s son. However, it was hard to deny James anything, and James had begged for a trip to Diagon Alley since Harry first told him stories about it. He had finally conceded and said they would go on James’s fifth birthday.

“Yes, kiddo, we are,” Harry agreed.

He hugged James and inhaled the scent of chocolate and dirt. James loved chocolate, like Remus Lupin had, and was constantly digging in the garden. Keeping him clean was almost a full-time job in itself.

The reactions to his reappearance would be spectacular. Harry didn’t doubt that in the least. He hadn’t attended the funerals, galas, or Ministry award ceremonies. No one knew where he had vanished off to or what he had been doing. And when he resurfaced with his son . . . it would be chaos.

“Do you remember what I said?” asked Harry, just making sure one final time.

James huffed. “You already asked me five times, Daddy!” he complained.

Harry tweaked his nose. “That’s because you’re five years old now, kiddo,” Harry said, before kissing James’s forehead.

“Never leave your sight, don’t let go of your hand, and scream really loud if anyone tries to touch me, unless you say they can,” James repeated. He pouted. “I remember. Can we go yet?”

Harry wanted to say no. He wanted to cancel the whole trip and erase James’s memory of his promise. But Harry had never been someone who broke his promises, and he wasn’t going to start now with his son. “Yes. We can go.” Harry took a deep breath, braced himself for the havoc that was going to happen, and Disapparated.

He landed in the Leaky Cauldron without the loud crack that usually accompanied Apparation. He had trained himself to eliminate it the year he was on the run with Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger; the slightest noise back then could lead to torture and death, something of which he wanted no part.

“Wow!” James said, craning his neck to check his surroundings.

Harry glanced around, shocked to see how it had changed. Tom was gone—long dead in the war. However, he hadn’t expected to see Hannah Abbot, if she was still unbonded, tending the bar. Her hair wasn’t in pigtails now, and the scar on her face had faded a great deal. He still remembered seeing the curse slice open her skin down to the cheekbone in the Great Hall.

Hannah’s eyes widened as she caught sight of him, and for a moment Harry was terrified that she would shriek his name in surprise and announce his presence. He had considered coming under a glamour charm, but he wouldn’t do that to James. He had spent too long teaching James not to trust strangers, and James might forget Harry looked like someone else if he scooped him up or grabbed him if they needed to leave in a hurry.

“Drinks are half-price for the next ten minutes!” Hannah announced, drawing the attention of everyone in the pub.

A Hufflepuff to the bone, that witch. Harry appreciated her loyalty and discretion. He inclined his head to her and left out the back door while the occupants were distracted.

“I want to walk,” James said.

Giving in to the inevitable, Harry set James down on his feet, and then took his hand. He tapped the Elder Wand against the bricks; the wall opened. James’s jaw dropped, his eyes popped, and Harry chuckled. He had been just as excited to see Diagon Alley when he was eleven. A glance was all it took to confirm that it had long since recovered from the war. Wizards and witches bustled past without fear, and all of the shops were open for business.

It made Harry feel nostalgic.

James tugged on his hand. “Come on, Daddy. Let’s go.”

Harry allowed James to drag him into Diagon Alley. They made it all of eight steps before a witch dropped the parcels she was carrying onto the ground and stared at them. The reaction spread from there. He dealt with it as whispers spread, his name echoing off every tongue in the crowd. However, when anyone stared too closely at James, he glared. His worst fear was that something would happen to his son, that he would lose James as he had lost his parents, his godfather, Remus, and all his closest mentors in the war.

Severus Snape’s death still haunted him. If only he had possessed the Elder Wand then, he would’ve been able to save him.

“Oh, brooms!” James yelled, before running to Quality Quidditch Supplies. Harry had to lengthen his stride so James didn’t get hauled off his feet. James pressed his nose to the glass, ignoring the children and teenagers who gaped at Harry, before pouting. “Aww, I already have the Lightning Bolt. Haven’t they made something faster yet, Daddy? That’s been out since Yule.”

Harry snorted. James was as addicted to flying as Harry was, and always complained that brooms never went fast enough. Considering the Lightning Bolt was twice as fast as the Firebolt Sirius had bought him, he had already reached the conclusion that his son was an adrenaline junkie. He wasn’t looking forward to the letters that would come home from Hogwarts, detailing James’s ridiculous escapades. He would probably make his House Quidditch team the first day of term.

“I guess not, James,” Harry said, grinning. James’s enthusiasm always made him smile; he was bright and innocent, untouched by the horrors of war. 

“You could make a faster one!” James insisted, turning puppy dog eyes on Harry.

Harry laughed and ruffled James’s hair. “Your broom is plenty fast, James. Maybe when you’re older.”

“Fine,” James said, stretching out the word as if his answer was a great concession. “I want to go to that ice cream shop you told me about. Please, Daddy!”

“Of course, James. You can have whatever you want,” Harry said. It was hard to balance not spoiling James with making sure he didn’t feel neglected. Harry knew what it was like to grow up with nothing; Dudley Dursley’s old clothes and toys had been broken or worn out by the time he got them. He hadn’t been given anything new after his parents died until he went shopping for his first-year Hogwarts’ supplies. He wouldn’t let James experience that deprivation. Yet, he wouldn’t spoil him rotten as Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon had spoiled Dudley.

When they walked into Florean Fortescue’s, everyone in line gawped and moved to the side as James pulled him to the front. Harry didn’t think his son even noticed, but Harry did. He kept a careful eye on the other customers as James pressed his free hand against the glass casing and looked at all the ice cream inside.

“What can I get for you, young man?” 

The man behind the counter wasn’t Florean, and Harry wondered if it was his son; there was a certain family resemblance.

“It’s my birthday!” James declared, a grin on his face. “I’m five.” He held up his free hand and wiggled all his fingers.

The man chuckled. “How about a birthday special then,” he said. “On the house,” he added, after bowing his head to Harry.

“Yay! I want that!” James clapped his hands, catching Harry’s every time since they were still holding hands. “Can I have it, Daddy?”

“No strawberries,” Harry told Florean’s son. One of the scariest days of his life was when he discovered that James was allergic to strawberries. James had almost died; it had been a close thing. Without the Elder Wand, he wouldn’t have a son anymore.

“Of course.” He bowed fully this time, and then concocted James’s birthday sundae. 

Harry watched him like a Thestral eying its prey the entire time. He had been gone for five years, and he had no idea who might secretly want him dead. People could hold grudges for a very long time. 

“Here you go, lad.”

“Thank you!” Harry let go of James’s hand and set his son in one of the chairs at a nearby table, before Levitating the sundae in front of him. James dug in.

After Harry sat down—ensuring his back was to the wall, so he could keep an eye on everyone—the shopkeeper walked over and handed Harry a cone piled high with chocolate ice cream. “My dad said it was your favorite the summer after your second year.”

“It was,” Harry said, recalling back when his biggest problem was Sirius Black’s escape from Azkaban. “Thank you.” 

He ate the ice cream in silence, mostly because James’s mouth was full. His son was a chatterbox, but he knew Harry’s stance on proper manners. Ron’s bad habits had annoyed him to no end, and he wouldn’t allow the purebloods any chance to mock his son at Hogwarts; James was Heir Potter, and he always seemed to know when he was supposed to behave like it and when he could goof off.

The amount of people staring at them grew, as crowds amassed outside the shop to ogle him and James. He was grateful James was facing the other direction, because all the staring would’ve surely freaked him out, and then Harry would get upset because James was upset, and things tended to explode when Harry was riled; that hadn’t changed over the years. His magic had always reacted to his emotions.

Florean’s son walked over to their table after serving a few more customers. “Will your wife be joining you, Lord Potter? Should I prepare something?”

“Mum can’t come,” James said as he set his spoon next to his empty bowl. “She’s with Grandpa and Grandmum Potter.”

“I-I’m sorry. I didn’t kn-know.” The man paled and bowed again as if afraid he had mortally insulted them with his question.

“No, you didn’t know,” Harry agreed in dismissal. He despised the pitying glances that came from those nearest, who had overheard. His wife’s death would be common knowledge by nightfall. And given that James had loudly announced his age, everyone would assume Harry had fallen in love and bonded the year he was missing—that is, hunting for Horcruxes. Even Ron and Hermione would probably buy that, because he had wandered off on his own several times.

Harry hadn’t bonded yet, and he didn’t intend to for at least ten more years. He didn’t want a wife that was tainted by the shadows of war. He didn’t want to be bound to someone who had watched others die, and whose memories were scarred by agony and suffering. He didn’t want to be woken at night by tears and nightmares, or to feel waves of fear seep down his bond. He wanted light, happiness, and purity, and Harry would wait as long as he had to in order to get that for himself.

“You’re Lord Harry Potter.”

He glanced down, shocked that he hadn’t noticed anyone approaching their table. It wasn’t wise to delve that deeply inside his mind in public. He was, however, unsurprised that it was a child who finally gathered the gumption to approach him. On the other hand, he hadn’t expected a miniature copy of Draco Malfoy to want anything to do with him.

“I am,” Harry agreed, a smile on his face. Except for the wavy hair that fell to his chin, he looked so much like Draco that it was uncanny. Though people likely thought the same about him and James. “Who’re you, kiddo?”

The boy executed a textbook bow and said, “Master Scorpius Malfoy.” Then, seemingly satisfied with the level of propriety he had exhibited, he clambered onto Harry’s lap, stunning Harry in the process. “Father’s been waiting years for you to come back. He’s been worried lately that you wouldn’t show up in time.”

“In time for what?” Harry asked, dazed. Draco Malfoy had been worried about him? Yes, they had worked out a truce of sorts, and saved each other’s lives, but that didn’t explain Scorpius’s reaction to him.

“My fostering, of course,” Scorpius said. He smiled; a Malfoy was smiling at him. It was a lot to take in. “He says you’re the only wizard he knows who would kill to keep me safe, so he doesn’t want to foster me with anyone else.”

James goggled at them, and then stood up in his chair. He knew what fostering was, and he also knew that Harry would never allow him to be fostered. He didn’t trust anyone to watch over his son for a whole year. Who knows what they would try to teach him? “Daddy, did you get me a brother for my birthday?” James asked. He jumped off the chair, ran around the table, and climbed onto Harry’s lap as well; it wasn’t easy. Two five-year-olds took up a fair amount of space.

“Who are you?” Scorpius asked. He glanced at James, nose in the air.

“Heir James Potter, your new brother!” James exclaimed. Before Scorpius had a chance to react, James hugged Scorpius tightly. He rubbed his cheek against Scorpius’s, ignoring all of Scorpius’s stuttering and struggling. It was the funniest thing Harry had seen in years.

But for all his protestations, it didn’t escape Harry’s notice that Scorpius wasn’t fighting all that hard to get away. And Scorpius hadn’t threatened even once to tell his father about James attempting to smother him, which was how Scorpius might have viewed James’s overenthusiastic hug. There was no getting around the fact that James was very affectionate, and that was something Scorpius would have to get used to if Draco really did ask Harry to foster him. If Harry accepted, of course.

There was a commotion at the front of the shop, and Harry looked up to see Draco Malfoy pushing his way through the crowd. A strand of silver magic glowed in his hand as he followed it. The panic in his eyes was replaced by relief as soon as he spotted Scorpius. Then he scowled. “Scorpius Malfoy.”

“Eep.” Scorpius stilled, allowing James to hug him more closely. “Yes, Father?”

“What did I tell—?”

“But I found Harry Potter! See, he’s right here!” Scorpius pointed right in his face, and Harry smirked when Draco winced at the disrespectful action. 

Draco winced again when James grabbed Scorpius’s hand, pulled it down, and announced, “Pointing at people is rude. Daddy says it’s not nice and I should never do it. Since you’re my brother, you can’t either.”

“I beg your pardon?” Draco looked pole-axed, which sent Harry into a fit of quiet snickers. “Brother?”

“Yes!” James smiled winsomely. “Scorpius said that you’re giving him to Daddy for a year. A brother is a good birthday present. Thank you, Heir Malfoy.”

Draco sighed and walked over to the table, where he proceeded to lift Scorpius off Harry’s lap as Harry untangled James’s arms from around Scorpius. Draco perched Scorpius on his hip and smiled ruefully. “I never thought the next generation of Potters would be even more mental.”

Harry snickered, not taking offense in the least. That was just how he and Draco had always communicated. “And I never thought the next generation of Malfoys would know how to smile.”

“Very funny,” Draco said, before rolling his eyes. He glanced down at Scorpius who was leaning against his chest and staring at James as if he were a strange, unknown creature. “Would you like to come to the Manor? It seems we have much to talk about, Potter.”

Harry hated Malfoy Manor. He didn’t understand how Draco could bear to live in the place when Voldemort had stalked the halls and reigned with curses. Fenrir Greyback had been there; Hermione had been tortured by Bellatrix Lestrange there; Luna Lovegood had been held prisoner there; Dobby had died saving him there. It was a place haunted by depressing and dark memories. Harry would never step foot within its halls again.

“I won’t go to the Manor,” Harry said, also standing and holding James in his arms. But the hopeful look on James’s face wouldn’t allow him to just walk away from the Malfoys. James needed friends his own age, and Harry wouldn’t provide him with siblings that weren’t born inside a bonding—something he couldn’t bear himself to do at this time, when all the witches were tainted by war.

Draco’s face closed down. “I see.”

Harry could use some company, too: someone that wouldn’t hero-worship him or badger him about the war. Someone who didn’t see him as the Boy-Who-Lived or whatever ludicrous title he had been bestowed with following the war. Draco Malfoy had always been good for that. So Harry decided to extend what was likely the most coveted invitation in the wizarding world. “You’re welcome to accompany James and I to Potter Manor, though, if you wish.”

“Can we go, Father?” Scorpius whispered as he tugged on Draco’s robes.

It could have been a trick of the light, but Harry would swear that Draco had smiled when he said, “Yes, Scorpius, we can go.”

As James and Scorpius grinned at each other, Harry knew that this was the start of an unusual friendship.


	2. Marcus Flint/Female!Harry Potter: The Blood Magic Hairbrush

Marcus Flint waited until his dorm mates fell asleep, before bypassing the wards on the door. How anyone thought such weak wards would keep him locked in his room was both insulting and amusing. Just because he was repeating his seventh year again didn’t mean he was an idiot.

“Fools,” he muttered.

Oh, not the Slytherins. They knew he was smarter than he acted. Students came to him for tutoring, ready to offer a trade. After all, no pureblood worth his name would just give away knowledge. Why should he strengthen and better children of families that the Flints weren’t allied with? So they came to him for help, offering information, secrets, gold (though he had plenty), and, on rare occasions, spells from their family grimoires.

Marcus noted each spell, so that his family would be even more knowledgeable about potential adversaries.

It was galling to walk through the corridors and hear the other students laugh at him. They didn’t even bother whispering as they speculated on whether his parents were ashamed of him or not. After all, it was unheard of for anyone from the Victorious and Most Ancient House of Flint to not even qualify to take the N.E.W.T.s., let alone the Heir.

He couldn’t leave Hogwarts yet. Not yet. Not when Halie Potter was so naïve to her surroundings.

The first time he had intruded on her ritual, Marcus had fled back to his room in embarrassment. “So beautiful.” He had felt like a peeping Tom. It was only the next night, as he lay in his bed unable to sleep, that he realized Halie hadn’t even noticed his presence. She had been too absorbed to pay attention to her surroundings. That was dangerous.

While Marcus would like to believe that his fellow Slytherins wouldn’t act dishonorably, he couldn’t. Some of them would go to any lengths to get what they wanted. The girl-who-lived was desirable. She didn’t lack for suitors. But getting past Lord Black wouldn’t be easy; rumor had it that over thirty offers had been rejected already. There were ways to get around such rejections, of course, but all were only worthy of the lowest of Mudbloods—or the most desperate of purebloods.

“Halie.”

So, just as he was tonight, Marcus snuck down to the common room and hid himself in the shadows. If he could evade the wards on their dormitory doors, others would be able to figure it out. He wasn’t so conceited to think that he was the only Ward-Evader in Slytherin. Besides, sneaking into the Slytherin common room seemed to be an infamous dare to students from other Houses. What if a Gryffindor walked in on her ritual?

“They’d probably go running to the Headmaster, yelling their heads off about Dark Magic,” Marcus said.

Keeping Halie safe had become Marcus’s nightly ritual.

For years, he had only seen her as a little girl. One who should know better than to sneak down to the common room every night. He couldn’t see Lord Black approving of anything that put her in danger. Anyone who threatened her seemed to mysteriously disappear without a trace. Marcus approved of such tactics. People could escape from Azkaban, a trial could be rigged, and so forth. Why would anyone be stupid enough to allow a threat to remain, when it could be obliterated?

Marcus sat in the chair that was in the darkest corner of the common room. It had the best view and its position negated anyone’s chance of attacking him from behind. It also had a direct line of sight to the massive fireplace. The wood crackled as it burned; the flames danced.

With a flick of his wand, Marcus said, “Tempus.” Ah, it was just after midnight. He grinned. Soon enough, Halie would come to the common room. She would sit on the plush Persian rug near the fireplace. The light of the fire would highlight the shape of her body through her nightgown, reminding Marcus of when he had first noticed her developing a svelte figure. 

Once, she was a little girl. Now, she was nothing of the sort.

* * *

Halie left the bathroom, her hair wrapped in a towel, and padded down to the common room in her nightgown. It was past midnight, and the bedroom doors locked from the inside and outside then—to keep intruders from getting in, and rebellious students from sneaking out. Everyone would be safely in bed now, which would allow her to dry her hair by the fire.

She knew grooming charms, of course. If Halie wanted, she could dry it and have it braided in less than thirty seconds. However, her godfather had raised her better than that. Sirius had taught her the Ancient Ways, because he couldn’t bear the thought of losing her, as he had lost her parents.

So, ever since Halie could remember, her hair would be brushed dry before the fireplace every night. It was an ancient ritual, which helped a witch to control her magic and also helped it grow. There was a reason, after all, that she was magically stronger than the seventh years.

Sirius’s motto was: There’s no harm in a little forbidden magic if it will keep you alive for me.

That’s what he had said before making her a hairbrush with silver and blood magic. Halie hadn’t used any other since he had given it to her, and she never would. She began brushing her hair methodically, mind wandering as she did so. Sirius’s evening letter had informed her that he had rejected three more potential suitors. He would probably reject everyone, unless she chose someone herself. Halie didn’t think that would be bad, though. Choosing someone would be nice. Too bad no one had really caught her eye.

Telling purebloods they were inferior and didn’t deserve her seemed to make Sirius happy. So maybe her unclaimed heart was a good thing. Halie approved of anything that brushed the shadows of guilt and loss from Sirius’s face. Time hadn’t lessened the pain he felt at her parents’ deaths. Well, her father’s to be more specific. Halie knew he was fond of her mother, but Sirius’s sworn blood-brotherhood bond with James still haunted him to this day.

“I shouldn’t have suggested they switch to Peter. I’m sorry, Prongslet. I’ll do anything to make it up to you.” Those were the words Sirius told her almost every day of her life. He was paying penance for failing to protect his blood-sworn family, and refused to believe her when she said all was forgiven. Someday, she would make him believe it.

Halie paused to spread out the strands of her hair, and then stroked her fingers through it. It had never been cut and never would be. Such was blasphemy; there was a reason why magical creature hair and feathers were the cores of wands. Her hair pooled on the rug before the fireplace. When she was standing, it fell to her ankles. Since it was filled with magic, it never weighed down her neck or caused her injuries. She didn’t even get headaches after wearing it up all day.

Halie pulled the loose hair out of the bristles of her brush and fed it to the fire, which flared white before turning back to its reds and golds. “A gift of love to Mother Magic,” she whispered, repeating Sirius’s words. After all the magic she had been given, it was only proper to give some in return.

She knew a lot of the half-bloods and Muggle-borns didn’t understand why pureblood ladies always wore their hair up, and it was too dangerous to speak of. If everyone knew magic was stored in hair, if the correct rituals were performed, what would stop petty, jealous girls from lopping off a rival’s hair to make her weaker? There was a reason that cutting and damaging a pureblood witch’s hair, accidentally or not, was punishable by an Azkaban sentence. 

Halie, of course, didn’t have to worry about that. Sirius had taught her the Ancient Ways, not the Dark Ways, which were popular now. Not even Gryffindor’s sword or Slytherin’s lancet had the power to cut her hair.

Sighing, Halie stared at the flames. She missed Sirius; she always worried about him when she was at Hogwarts. He should spend more time looking after himself, and less time worrying about her. It would be easier if she knew someone was there to keep an eye on him, other than Kreacher. But Sirius had decided when she was little that he wouldn’t court a witch until Halie was happily bonded, because he didn’t want to be distracted from doing right by her. His fear of failing her in some way was impossible to miss, so she let it slide.

Life would be better for him if I found someone to love, Halie thought.

She caught sight of a hand reaching for her hair at the edge of her peripheral vision. Halie swung her hairbrush over and smacked the callused, thick fingers. “My godfather will kill you,” she hissed. How in the world had someone snuck into the common room? Halie could only bypass the wards because she was a Parselmouth.

“It would be worth it,” a harsh, male voice grunted.

Halie felt sick to her stomach as she tried to gather all of her hair close to her body. A true witch’s hair should only ever be touched by four people in her entire life: herself, of course, the man who raised her—be it a father, grandfather, uncle, godfather, etc.—her husband, and her eldest son. They alone had the right to help her magic grow, and to receive the peace Mother Magic granted those who helped protect her beloved daughters.

“P-please,” she begged. “Don’t touch it.”

Halie’s eyelashes clumped with tears as she stared up at Heir Marcus Flint. He was massive—there was no other word for it—broad-shouldered and muscular in the way very few wizards were. He had long since reached his majority, as the magic flashing through his dark eyes proved. He wasn’t attractive. However, his presence was insanely powerful. The fact that her hair-brushing ritual had managed to eclipse his presence in the room was both exhilarating and terrifying.

This was Marcus’s third time as a seventh-year student, which made no sense to her. He wasn’t an idiot; Snape had assigned him as the tutor for the fifth-year students this year, and never complained when Marcus skipped all of his classes and didn’t show up for detentions.

Marcus had unnerved Halie since first year, even though he had never been unkind to her, because she knew that he could break her in half without even using his magic.

“Why?” Marcus demanded, voice rough.

“You’ve no right,” Halie snapped, lips quivering. He wouldn’t really touch it, would he? Surely not. But what if he did . . . ? Why had she left her wand in her bedroom? Because it’s always been safe out here before, she thought.

“Lord Potter’s First Right passed to Lord Black upon his death. I know that,” Marcus said. His hand hovered above her loose, black hair, but he didn’t touch it. “I’m interested in the Second Right,” he stated, dark eyes burning with desire. “Who will it be, then? Malfoy, the whelp who whines to his daddy about everything? Longbottom, whose skill at magic is laughable at best? A Weasley, who won’t even know what he’s been gifted with?” Marcus sneered derisively. “Nott, who’s weaker than you physically? Snape, who could happily pretend you’re your mother?”

Halie flinched, because she knew it wasn’t far from the truth. The thought of any of those boys possessing Second Right of her hair was unconscionable. “I haven’t decided.” Honestly, she hadn’t even given it much thought. Halie knew some of the girls her age were already engaged, or betrothed—a few had even bonded—but none of the males of her acquaintance tempted her in the least. The descriptions Marcus had used for those few could be applied to almost all the other pureblood males she knew. That was why no one had captured her heart.

Marcus knelt before her and offered her a serious smile; it looked like a grimace. “Lady Halie Potter, I petition for your Second Right.”

She leaned backward a few inches in shock. Was he serious? Halie had received many courtship, betrothal, and bonding offers this past summer, but they all came in scrolls to her godfather. She had never received one face-to-face. She wasn’t sure how to react. What would he do if she refused? “What?”

He scowled. “I’m my own man; my father doesn’t make my decisions for me. I’m strong enough both physically and magically to protect you. I’ve been raised in the Ancient Ways of the Olde Magick, Lady Halie.” Marcus stroked her cheek before she could even think to dodge, his rough thumb brushing beneath her right eye. It wasn’t unpleasant. “And I would never pretend you’re anyone else.”

“I—” Halie didn’t know how to respond. Everything he had spoken was the truth; he had never wasted his time on lies. Marcus’s reputation for blunt honesty, often to the point of cruelty, preceded him. He could, without a doubt, do all that he had just said. But why hadn’t he ever said anything before? He had barely talked to her.

A dull flush, barely visible, covered his cheeks. “I haven’t been hanging out at Hogwarts for two extra years because I have nothing else to do. By all rights, I should be running our lands now, while Father deals with the politics.”

If that wasn’t a declaration of lust—love?—then she wasn’t a Potter. 

Halie stared at him, thoughts racing through her head. She didn’t love him, but he possessed many admirable qualities. He was patient with children, he was intelligent, he was honorable, family was important to him, and he was willing to humiliate himself for just a chance at winning her heart. Her father had possessed those same qualities, and her parents had been blissful despite the war. If her mother could learn to love her father, then Halie could surely learn to love Marcus.

“Are you sure you don’t just want to avoid running your lands?” Halie teased, as if he were Sirius. She froze once she realized what she had done, but all he did was chuckle. When he didn’t lash out, she felt the tension drain from her body. Maybe this could actually work. “What did you tell your dad? Sorry, I’ve got my eye on this girl at school. You can handle it without me.”

Marcus glanced away from her. “Not exactly.”

“Not formal enough?” Halie smirked. “I can do better.” She straightened her shoulders and set her jaw. “Father, your future daughter-in-law is at Hogwarts, surrounded by the scum of society. I won’t leave her with the rubbish. Good day.”

“Closer,” Marcus agreed. Then he blushed; his crimson cheeks made something in Halie’s chest soften.

He was not as mean as he seemed. He was ignoring his responsibilities to be with her. That was sweet, in a weird way. It could work. She thought . . . she thought they could be happy together. It would just take some time.

And so, decision made, Halie handed him her hairbrush.

* * *

The hairbrush was heavy and reeked of Blood Magic. Marcus blinked, but it didn’t disappear. Halie had just granted him her Second Right. “Are you sure?” he asked. She had better be, because a Flint never let go of something once he sank his claws into it. They weren’t the Victorious and Most Ancient House without reason. “I’m not handsome. I don’t like parties or galas. I’d just as soon never take you dancing.”

Shut up, you fool! Marcus thought, but it didn’t help. He kept rambling.

“My roommates say I snore louder than a dragon’s roar. I don’t care what other people think of me. I’m more likely to kill an opponent in a duel than disable one.” Halie smirked at that. Marcus wondered if she was only a Potter in name, because she sure acted like a Black at heart. It would make sense, given who had raised her. “If I’m really hungry, I forget my manners. My sister says I don’t listen to what I’m told. I—”

Halie’s laughter was full-throated and loud. “Did you really think I expected a flawless man?”

“I don’t know what goes on in girls’ heads.” Most of what they said was senseless. Halie was different; she didn’t sit around in the common room gossiping. She didn’t place bets where the loser had to give the winner a manicure. True, her body had caught his attention first, but her personality kept him interested. People who wasted their time on petty concerns and frivolous things irritated him.

“Thinking,” Halie said, before snorting. She stared right at him; it was somewhat unnerving to be under the full power of her gaze. It reminded him of Snape’s threats to use dunderheads for Potions ingredients—not that Headmaster Dumbledore would ever let him. Pity. Less stupidity in the world was always a good thing. “You’re not handsome.”

It hurt to have her agree with him. It’s not like he didn’t already know that. He had always been average, at best, but what man didn’t want the woman he desired to be attracted to him? And if she wasn’t, why had she given him her Second Right? What girl entered into a courtship with a man she didn’t desire? 

“But that doesn’t matter. There are more important things.”

Really? Even his sister twittered about how she would bond with a handsome pureblood. In fact, ‘good looking’ was at the top of his sister’s list of qualities she expected in her future husband. “Like what?”

“Fidelity.”

“That won’t be a problem.” What was the point of being the victor if the prize wasn’t worth it? His family was proud to acknowledge that they were always faithful to their spouses. An illegitimate child had never been born in the Flint bloodline, which wasn’t something many other pureblood families could claim. There had never been a Squib in the Flint bloodline either. Personally, Marcus assumed that was a blessing from Mother Magic for not dishonoring their wives. 

“I know. I wouldn’t have given you my hairbrush if there was even a chance you’d become an adulterer.” She was a curious mixture of bold and shy. It was enchanting.

“What else?” It would be best to find out what Halie was looking for now. That would give him more ammunition to make her fall in love with him. Lily Evans had led James Potter on a merry chase, even after they were engaged. He anticipated changing Halie’s view, so that all she wanted to see was him.

“You’re good with kids.” Halie smiled, gaze distant. “Having been raised by Sirius, I want a husband who’s involved in his children’s lives. I can see that potential in you.”

“I wouldn’t allow my kids to be pawned off on house-elves,” Marcus said. He shuddered at the thought. That was neglect and laziness of the cruelest kind. “Why do you think Malfoy’s so messed up?”

Halie’s laughter was addictive. “All right, enough stalling. Please tell me you can multitask. It shouldn’t be that hard to brush my hair and belittle others at the same time. I’m going to be mad if it dries in knots.”

Marcus moved behind her and began brushing her hair. It was the softest, silkiest thing he could remember touching. “Lovely.” 

Her neck turned red at the compliment. “Thank you.” The smug I know was conveyed, even though she didn’t say it.

Marcus had guarded her (spied on her) long enough to know how she liked it to be brushed. So he started at the ends and worked his way higher. Marcus could feel the magic in her hair; it made his fingers tingle. With more experience under her belt, Halie might be able to beat me in a duel, Marcus realized. Her magic is vaster than I expected. When he finished, he set the brush on the floor. Marcus slid his arm around her waist and pulled her back against his chest. She was warm, in her nightgown, and in his arms. Someday she’ll be warm, in my bed, and in my arms, he thought with pride.

Halie tilted her head back and looked up at him. “Should I expect you to be handsy, then?”

“I prefer the word tactile. Handsy makes it sound like I’m touching you without permission,” Marcus said. Okay, to be fair, he hadn’t asked her. But he wasn’t touching anything forbidden. He was the type to show his affection, not speak of it. He hoped she didn’t want flowery love poems. That would be torture.

“You don’t strike me as the type of person who asks for permission.”

“That’s because I’m not.”

She turned around in his arms, kneeling on her own hair. How did that not hurt? “Yet you petitioned for my Second Right.” Halie perused his features. “Petitioning sounds a lot like asking permission to me.”

Marcus frowned. She was going to try to force him to talk about his feelings, wasn’t she? “Exceptions are made in exten—special circumstances.” Would that be good enough?

“Smart man,” Halie said, fingers tracing along his jaw. “No woman wants to be an extenuating circumstance.” She sighed and lay back against his chest; his arms encircled her. “But every woman wants to be special.”

Chuckling, Marcus petted her hair, where it spilled over his hands. If that’s all it takes, he thought, I can’t lose.


	3. Charlie Weasley/Female!Harry Potter: The Wandlore One

Helene Potter huddled in the kitchen of the Burrow, hot chocolate in her hands and screams in her head. The sight of the Dark Mark floating in the sky, of the mayhem and the terror continued to rub her nerves raw, even hours after she was safely away from the Death Eaters and the Quidditch World Cup. Her holly wand lay on the table; without a second thought, she snapped it.

He stepped out of the shadows then, from where Helene knew he had been watching her. His hair was a deep scarlet, not ginger like the other Weasleys. It was also long, and he didn’t bow to his mother’s loud, aggravating reprimands. He was the one who had apparently inherited Molly’s brothers’ title: Lord Prewett. He was the second-born, but got the greater title. He was the son who made her feel safe—a concept that was so foreign it had taken her days to understand the feeling or put words to it. 

He was Charles Prewett.

Charles stared at the broken wand in her hand, as a shattered phoenix song vanished as if it had never been. “It betrayed you,” he said.

Helene nodded, her posture painfully straight. Her wand had let someone else use it. The thought alone made her ill; she had trusted it implicitly, only to be betrayed. He understood, as she doubted anyone else would.

He stepped forward and cupped her chin. “My lady, allow me to take you away from all of this; it’s beneath you. It endangers you.” His other hand fisted. “I cannot tolerate it.”

Helene thought of her parents, who had placed their trust poorly, and she had paid the price. She thought of her godfather, who hadn’t fulfilled his duties, and she had paid the price. She thought of her mother’s relatives, who hated magic, and she had paid the price. And she tried to imagine a future where she didn’t have to pay the price for others’ decisions, where she was protected from betrayal and guarded by love fiercer than a dragon guarding its hoard.

“I swear on my magic I will never betray you,” he stated.

Charles’ magic blanketed her, and Helene truly smiled for the first time all year. Her answer was two words she hadn’t expected to live long enough to speak to any wizard. “My lord.”


	4. Regulus Black/Female Harry Potter: The Knight in Dark Magic Armor

Hepatica Potter walked beside Regulus Black, grateful for his silent escort. Ever since she had become a prefect, back in fifth year, he had always joined her at the end of her rounds to guarantee her safe return to Gryffindor Tower. She never asked why he—the Defense Professor—always found her, but she wasn’t going to object. If he felt compelled to watch out for her, then she wouldn’t interfere. Extra protection wasn’t something to shun.

When the sound of giggling and moaning reached her ears, Hepatica winced. Having to interrupt canoodling couples was disgusting. She had even requested that Professor McGonagall assign a different female prefect—so that she wouldn’t be forced to see her fellow students behaving shamelessly, clothes in disarray and arms groping at each other. McGonagall had refused; Hepatica hadn’t spoken to her since.

Her steps slowed, and she wrapped her arms around herself. How could they justify such loose and immoral behavior? Hepatica didn’t understand! Couldn’t they feel their magic screaming for them to stop, as it was tainted? Couldn’t they hear Mother Magic weeping as they abused the power she had given them? How could they not respect themselves, each other, and their magic?

Regulus sighed and sneered in the direction the noises were coming from. “I’ll handle this, Heiress Potter,” he said.

He had offered Hepatica the perfect out, but she couldn’t accept it. As long as the blasted Head Girl pin was on her chest, and McGonagall refused to reassign it, she was obligated to fulfill her duties, whether she wanted them or not. “Unfortunately, Lord Black,” she whispered, “this is my responsibility.”

He opened his mouth, as if to refute her statement, but then shut it again and hung his head. Regulus looked disgusted and displeased at the situation, and Hepatica knew he had always been against pureblood ladies serving as prefects for this very reason; just like her, he didn’t think they should be exposed to such base, filthy actions.

Hepatica took a deep breath, smoothed the expression on her face, and followed the noises against her better judgment. When she reached a corner, it took all her Gryffindor bravery to force herself around it.

Then she saw something that she would never be able to unsee.

Hepatica’s wand fell from her nerveless fingers and clattered on the ground, though it didn’t interrupt the couple before her. Tears streamed down her face as she lifted a shaking hand to her mouth and stepped backwards. She backed right into Regulus’s chest, but she couldn’t bring herself to move away, apologize, or anything of the sort. Her eyes slammed shut, but it didn’t help at all. The image was engraved in her mind, and it only played across her closed eyelids like a Muggle film.

Kevin Entwhistle—a pureblood—had a witch pressed against the wall. But that wasn’t the part that made Hepatica wish someone would Obliviate her; that wasn’t the part that made her want to curl up in her bed in Potter Manor and lock down her personal wards for a year, so that not even the house-elves could get in. Entwhistle’s hand had been inching up the witch’s shirt, as he licked down her throat. Her hair was unbound, and his other hand was fisted in it.

The witch’s hair was blood red. Only Lily and Hepatica Potter had blood red hair.

Kevin Entwhistle, a cursed Ravenclaw pureblood, was touching and defiling someone Polyjuiced as Hepatica Potter. The thought of any male knowing what it was like to touch her hair, kiss her, lick her neck, stroke her stomach. . . . If she hadn’t missed dinner because Eva Selwyn had needed help with a delicate matter, Hepatica knew she would’ve thrown up everything she had eaten.

How had anyone gotten some of her hair? She always made sure to be so, so careful with it.

She hugged herself so hard that she knew she would bruise, but she didn’t care. She desperately wished for her father’s invisibility cloak, which was up in her trunk, because she wanted to fade away and never be seen again. For anyone to see her like that—Hepatica bit her lip and sobbed. She tried to back away farther, but Regulus blocked her path.

Hepatica had almost forgotten that Regulus was there, but then his magic erupted from his body. She had heard stories all of her life of his older brother, Sirius, who had once been friends with her father. Sirius had joined the Dark Lord, for reasons unknown, only to die soon afterward. However, it was said that the Dark Lord’s magic was the blackest, thickest, headiest power anyone would ever feel. Hepatica couldn’t imagine magic more lethal or addictive than Regulus’s.

It brushed past her in sharp, pointed lances of power. Even with her eyes closed, she could feel its form. It was a black knight, jousting to the death. 

“I-I’m s-sor—”

Hepatica flinched again as the impostor spoke with her voice. Did she really think that ‘I’m sorry’ would earn her forgiveness? How could anyone be that foolish? How dare anyone steal all that was sacred to her! Kevin Entwhistle had to know that he was devouring someone Polyjuiced as her; no pureblood could be imbecilic enough to believe she would ever— The tears on her face thickened, and Hepatica found that she was having trouble breathing.

She had never felt so disrespected, so betrayed, so used in her entire life.

“As Lord of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, I find you, Mister Entwhistle, and you, Laura Smythe, guilty of identity theft. A case which could have resulted in line theft. Under law, the punishment is death,” Regulus said, voice booming like thunder and electric as lightning.

Between one breath and the next, Hepatica smelled blood. The cloying scent flooded her nostrils, and she could taste sweet copper on her tongue.

“Open your eyes.” Regulus’s tone was more persuasive than the Imperius Curse. 

Hepatica didn’t want to see her wanton copy. She might lose her mind if she did.

Regulus cupped her shoulders. “It’s over, Heiress Potter. I promise. Now open your eyes.”

She did. Blood coated the corridor, splattering the walls and ceiling, with puddles of it on the floor. Entwhistle’s hands lay severed, feet away from his body. His eyes were missing and blood poured from his mouth, streaming out of the stump of his tongue. Not far from him was a smoking, twisted heap. If she hadn’t known that two people were in the corridor, she wouldn’t have guessed that the steaming lump had been human.

Hepatica tilted her head as her brain absorbed the scene. “Thank you. It’s . . . beautiful.” Very few people would be able to stare at such gore and find it beautiful; before tonight, Hepatica wouldn’t have been such a person. For this event alone, though, she would make an exception.

“You don’t need to thank me,” Regulus stated. His grip on her shoulders tightened before he let go. “I am a very selfish man, Heiress Potter. The sight was more than I could bear.” He stepped away from her.

As his magic retreated from the sanguineous slop, Hepatica grasped it with her own and pulled it close. She held it fast, though it didn’t struggle against her.

“Heiress Potter?” Regulus asked, speculative.

Hepatica turned to face him; his gray eyes were still alight with rage, and the magic that she didn’t have wrapped around her rippled with possessive hatred and murderous intent. Though the Potters were a Light Magic family, Hepatica couldn’t ignore what Regulus had just done for her. Her Grandmamma Dorea had been a Black; Hepatica was well versed in Dark Magic. 

She could’ve pretended ignorance. Hepatica could have feigned innocence, and acted as if she had no clue what Regulus meant by his actions. Except for two things: Potters are eternally honorable, and Hepatica was impressed. She had never imagined that any wizard would care so much for her. 

A blooded death—by Dark Magic—for her honor and virtue.

Hepatica knelt before Regulus, her gaze never straying from his as she picked up her wand from the floor. A quick flick was all it took to send her hair tumbling down. His magic vibrated in her grasp as the blood red locks covered her body. She picked up a lock of her hair and reached her left hand out; Regulus offered his own left hand, never blinking—as if she would vanish if he closed his eyes for a moment. She tied her hair around his wrist. 

His eyes shone brighter than a phoenix on burning day. Regulus helped her to her feet and hugged her. “I take thee prisoner, Lady Black, until thy heart should cease to beat.”

Hepatica folded herself more deeply inside his magic, and prayed that day would never come. Then she took a breath and sealed her fate. “I surrender, Lord Black, to a bonding won with blood.”


	5. Regulus Black/Female Harry Potter: The Time Travel One

It was obvious—to any pureblood with an established spy network—that James Potter’s “little sister” was actually his daughter, who had traveled back through time. Luckily for Regulus Black, house-elves were horrible gossips. Kreacher’s second cousin, three times removed, worked for the Potters and blabbed when he was drunk on Butterbeer.

What wasn’t common knowledge, because Regulus knew how to keep his mouth shut, was that Harriet Potter had saved his life. She found him inside a cave and rescued him from Inferi. He, Regulus Black, had to be rescued. Disgraceful. At the time, he was too stunned to protest when she took Slytherin’s locket from him, winked, and then whispered, “Our little secret.”

When the Dark Lord mysteriously disappeared less than a week later, taking his Dark Mark in the process, Regulus was livid. He spent all that time uncovering the Dark Lord’s secrets, and he wasn’t even the one who got to destroy him. That was overshadowed by the realization that he was finally free of the insane half-blood to whom he had unwisely bound himself. Never again, he swore to himself. He would never follow anyone ever again. From now on, he would lead.

To celebrate the Dark Lord’s demise, the Ministry of Magic threw a large gala. Anyone who was anyone (and some people who frankly weren’t) was there. Regulus had no idea how his brother was in attendance, seeing as he had been disinherited, unless he was James Potter’s plus one. That would open up a whole slew of jokes, which might be too distasteful for him. That would be rare. He was so irreverent. Regulus would have been content to ignore his banished brother, because Sirius wasn’t as special as he thought he was, except for the fact that his mysterious rescuer was standing with him and James.

She was wearing a daring dress in dark purple. It flattered her figure. He might have been tempted to introduce himself even if she hadn’t saved his life. “And who might this be?” asked Regulus.

“Go away, Regulus. She’s not interested,” Sirius snapped before stepping closer to her.

Oh, then why did she save his life? Besides, introductions were just formalities at this point. He knew who she was. She was from the future. “Don’t be so rude, Sirius.”

James Potter glared at him before saying, “Harriet, this is Heir Regulus Black. Heir Black, this is my twin sister Harriet. She’s been attending school at Beauxbatons. It’s safer there these days.”

Regulus snorted. It was the worst cover story he had heard in his life, and seeing as Sirius and James were Marauders, that was an impressive feat to surpass. Their excuses were always pathetic, yet the professors were always stupid enough to believe them and let them off the hook, with a detention every now and then. Blatant favoritism, he sneered.

Regulus lifted her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles, lingering longer than was polite—much to Sirius’s visual displeasure. For once, though, he wasn’t doing it to get a rise out of his brother. For the first time in his eighteen years of life, Regulus was genuinely interested in a witch. The fact that Sirius seemed to feel the same way only heightened his determination to have her.

Besides, she didn’t have to save his life. She had chosen to be there when she knew he would die. Harriet must’ve saved him for a reason; nothing else made sense. Why, though? Why was he worth saving, in her opinion?

“May I have this dance, Heiress Potter?” Regulus asked.

Harriet smiled at him, bright and secretive. “Of course, Heir Black.”

As Sirius spluttered and James announced that he hadn’t given her permission to waltz, Regulus led her onto the dance floor. The music for a waltz started up; he cocked an eyebrow in challenge. To his delight, she accepted. Oh, she was rebellious. Yes, he quite liked that. James would be having fits. It was a scandalous dance in general, but they managed to make it even more so. Regulus held her flush against him, enjoying each and every curve and dip he could feel, which was all of them. Hmm, she didn’t just look stunning; she felt marvelous as well.

With every society matron or miss who gasped in shock or horror, Harriet’s smile grew. She winked at him. “Ruffling their feathers is so much fun, isn’t it?”

Regulus snickered, because he had always felt the same way. He, like Sirius, was not fond of constrictive rules and protocols. However, they rebelled in different ways. Whereas Sirius had seen fit to abandon almost everything he had been taught, and throw tantrums until he was disowned, Regulus had toed the line of propriety. And, by that, he meant that he tried to get as close to crossing the line as he could without really going over it. His words were always just this side of crass, scandalous, crude, vulgar, disdainful, dishonorable, and vicious.

“Yes,” Regulus agreed. He pressed his nose into her hair; it smelled like lilacs. “Would you like to make some of them faint? I haven’t been able to accomplish that on my own, despite all my efforts to the contrary.” It was frustrating, because he hated leaving a goal unaccomplished. At the same time, he disliked asking anyone for help. Regulus was a capable wizard, thank you very much.

“Save a man’s life and he still asks for more of you.” She rolled her eyes. “Wizards!” Harriet smirked, her green eyes sparkling with mischievous delight. “What did you have in mind?”

It was nice to know that she didn’t think he was an idiot. At least Harriet wasn’t trying to pretend they had never met. That would make her much less interesting. He couldn’t stand women who doubted his intelligence; he was almost dead at the time, not unobservant! “Do you tango, Harriet?” Regulus asked, dropping the title all together. His smirk widened when she didn’t slap him for it. Oh yes, this one was very, very interesting.

Her laughter was warm and loud, not delicate and fake like most ladies’. It sucked him in and made him wish she would never stop. As they turned again, he saw that Sirius’s attention was wrapped up in the witch in his arms. That wouldn’t do at all. She probably already had some natural affection for his cursed brother. With how close he and James were, Harriet must have known him in the future. In fact, Sirius had probably been her godfather, which made Sirius’s interest in her deeply disturbing. Keeping her to himself was a kindness on Regulus’s part.

“Regulus, darling,” Harriet bantered, much to his pleasure, “don’t ask asinine questions.” Her magic twitched, and the musicians switched right into a passionate piece of music that was perfect for the tango. The other couples fled the dance floor. She lifted her leg and wrapped it around his hips, baring her calf.

Nice and shapely. Regulus traced his fingers up her smooth skin, then over her skirt. He grasped her hip possessively and dragged her backward across the dance floor. “My apologies, Harriet. I’ll make sure to avoid them in the future.” Ah, he was already planning to see her again. She was a little enchantress. He never wanted to see a witch again. Regulus massaged her hip with his fingers and dipped her so deeply that her chest would’ve spilled from her gown if the cut were lower. Regulus scowled at the thought and righted her again.

He had a horrible urge to punch anyone who stared at her chest like a filthy Muggle. There was something wrong with him. A Black cursed people, not punched.

Her browed furrowed. “You’re scowling, darling. What’s wrong? Am I boring you?” Harriet asked. She turned her head to the right and pressed her cheek against his.

James was turned away from them, his face a fiery red. He wasn’t a very good father, or fake twin brother, was he? Allowing his embarrassment to overcome his duty to protect her. James Potter, what a surprising disappointment he had become. However, Regulus was more interested in the fact that Sirius’s wand was in his hand. He didn’t think he had ever seen his brother so absolutely murderous before. It was lovely.

Regulus twirled Harriet out, so that her skirt flared magnificently, and then pulled her back against his chest. He pressed their opposite cheeks together and marched her away from Sirius. “Even I, my dear, believe that some parts of a woman should be savored in private.” Because at some point, he did think they would be in private.

Harriet batted her eyelashes coyly. “You make my body sound like a buffet, Regulus. Should I be worried for my virtue?” She didn’t sound worried at all.

He grabbed her left thigh and hauled her leg around him again, before proceeding to lead her across the dance floor. “Not at all,” Regulus purred. “I’ll take good care of it.”

She was quiet for a moment, and then chuckled ruefully. “It figures that the most honest bonding offer I’ve ever received would come from a Death Eater that managed to betray Voldemort and live.”

Oh, he didn’t like that at all. How many bonding offers had she received? “I aim to surprise,” Regulus drawled. He stared down into her eyes and knew that his interest wouldn’t wane. She had too much history, too much sass, too much magic, and too much wit to ever bore him. And really, he would be doing her a disservice by letting her bond with anyone else; those idiots would actually believe that she had spent the past however many years over in France.

“Hmm. Heiress Black.” Harriet’s lips twisted in a moue of intrigue. “I’ve certainly been given worse titles by the Daily Prophet over the years.”

Regulus dipped her again, but he made sure to angle her just right this time, so that he was the only one who got to enjoy a view of Harriet’s assets. They were delightful. “Is that a yes, then?” She didn’t answer him, which was very annoying. “I suppose I could find time for a few Marriage Dates first, to ease your fears,” he said grudgingly. “As long as you quickly realize I’m the only one who deserves you.” 

She arched an eyebrow. “Confident much?”

Regulus smirked. “Very.” He pulled her even closer, smug that her pupils were dilated. “You clearly want me, Harriet.” She shivered in his arms. “Is that a yes, then?” he repeated.

Harriet’s delightful laughter filled the ballroom again. “I suppose it is, darling.”

This was going to be a fun challenge. He looked forward to it. “Excellent,” Regulus said. He grinned and then stole her lips in a kiss. She was a total novice, much to his satisfaction. That makes eight, Regulus thought as another lady fainted. Well, the gala had actually been worth his time. What a shock! 

“Get your hands off her!” Sirius yelled, magic fluctuating.

James’s head whipped around at Sirius’s outcry; his jaw dropped. His cheeks flushed, and he vibrated with rage. It was amusing. What did the little Light wizards think they could possibly do to him? He could wipe the floor with them without even trying.

Regulus never hated his brother per se (because hatred would imply that Sirius was worthwhile enough to occupy his thoughts); he just loathed the way that his elder brother looked at his intended. For once, it was his turn to get what Sirius wanted. Sirius had already gotten what Regulus wanted too many times. Mother Magic had turned the tables for once. Deal with it! 

He smirked at Sirius’s reaction. It was as childish as he expected. Regulus twirled Harriet out of the way of hexes, jinxes, and curses as Sirius attacked. Like the cowards they were, the audience didn’t try to help. His brother launched a frontal assault, which was just foolish. Regulus had always been the better dueler; there was a reason he was Mum’s favorite. Regulus had taken to Dark Magic like one of the Merpeople to water.

“Sirius, you might hit Harriet!” James yelled. He grabbed Sirius’s wand arm and forced his hand down to the floor, before ripping his wand from his grasp.

This was the most fun he’d had at a gala in his entire life. Scandal. Shock and awe. Illegal duels. Brilliant! Regulus laughed and relished in his power. He was a Black. He was cunning enough to outwit the Dark Lord and locate one of his precious Horcruxes. He was vigilant enough to utilize the house-elf network to spy on everyone who was anyone (and some people who frankly weren’t), and amass mounds of blackmail. He might have started at the bottom of the social ladder—a second born son, the spare—but soon enough, no one would be higher than him. 

Hmm, Minister Regulus Black, youngest Minister for Magic in history. It had a nice ring to it. Regulus rejoiced in all that was possible, in all the doors that opened to him, because a rule-breaking witch had traveled back in time.


	6. Female Harry Potter/Draco Malfoy: The Matriarchal Society One

Heiress Hyacinth Potter grinned as she flew on the back of the hippogriff. It was nothing like riding her Firebolt, and even an Abraxan didn’t compare. She had taken Care of Magical Creatures for the past four years just to reach this lesson—when the seventh years were allowed to ride the hippogriffs. Oh, true, riding the Thestrals had been fun. And petting the unicorns in fourth year had been nice. Nothing, though, compared to this unlimited stretch of freedom. This was brilliant!

Up here, with blue sky and clouds all around her, she could pretend that it wasn’t time to finish growing up. 

Her seventeenth birthday had passed almost six months ago. At first, her parents hadn’t seemed worried when she didn’t send out a courting request to any of the eligible pureblood men who would love to be Heir Potter. Lady Jamie Potter, her mother, had laughed and kissed Lord Regulus Potter, her father, on the cheek, before smirking and saying, “Not everyone is as appealing as you were, dear. She’ll choose someone soon.”

Hyacinth’s mother didn’t know that she already had chosen someone. It seemed that gray eyes were a weakness the Potter ladies couldn’t resist. Not that he gives me the time of day, she thought morosely.

The hippogriff looped backward, and then dove toward the ground in mimicry of a Wronski Feint. She laughed as the force of the wind sent water spraying off the Black Lake and onto the bottom of her robes.

Heir Draco Malfoy was an annoying, impossible, disrespectful git. 

Hyacinth loved him anyway. 

She knew that there were other pureblood heirs and misters at Hogwarts—not to mention the countless ones from Europe, Africa, and Asia. Hyacinth knew that some of them were smart, kind, charming, brave, daring, funny, clever, and gentle. However, as soon as she saw Draco Malfoy, with his snide remarks and cutting gray eyes, she forgot they existed. Why couldn’t she get him out of her head? Why couldn’t she turn her attention to someone else? Why did he have to be so blasted mesmerizing?

In wizarding society, it was a witch’s right to choose the father of her children. She got to pick a wizard she trusted enough to submit herself to, and Draco had stolen that place in her heart. There was just something about him that made her ignore all the wizards who fought for her attention. 

Lady Narcissa Malfoy—who had only taken her husband’s name because he didn’t have a sister for the Most Ancient House to be conferred upon—was a close friend of her mother’s. If Hyacinth had sent an offer for Draco, it would have been accepted. As snobbish as it sounded, no one had ever refused an offer from a Potter lady. He would hate her if she arranged a bonding with his mother. He would resent her the rest of their lives. She couldn’t bear to feel that every day until she died.

Leaves brushed against Hyacinth’s fingertips as the hippogriff skimmed across the top of the trees in the forbidden forest. They were harsh, but she didn’t pull back as they slapped against her skin. She welcomed the slight sting. It didn’t hurt as much as knowing Draco wasn’t the slightest bit interested in her. She was old enough to accept that she couldn’t have everything she wanted. She wasn’t foolish.

Hyacinth couldn’t bring herself to send an offer.

Draco had never sought to curry her favor, as so many other wizards had. She hadn’t received a single gift from him. He gave her the barest amount of courtesy, and even that seemed to be tedious in his mind. His nods were curt, his bows were brief, and he only stayed in her presence for the precise amount of time required before leaving. He was always giving her his back and walking away from all that they could become. Didn’t he know she would gladly spend her life trying to make him happy? It was as if he couldn’t tolerate her, and wished to be anywhere outside the reach of her magic. He made her feel like a pariah.

So yes, Hyacinth wanted him; she wanted him enough to fight as many witches as was necessary—to show that she was the premier lady. However, Hyacinth would rather never have him, than spend a lifetime bonded to him, knowing he despised her. What had she ever done to make him hate her so much? If he would just tell her, she would find some way to make it up to him!

One broken heart was less painful than two. She had no right to steal his future.

A clearing full of her classmates came into view, and Hyacinth fought to regain control of her thoughts as the hippogriff circled and prepared to land. If she didn’t raise her walls in time, Draco’s words would cut to the quick. How had she earned his ire? Once the hippogriff landed, a pureblood with brown hair reached up and lifted her down from the hippogriff’s back. She knew she had seen him before, but she couldn’t be bothered to remember his name; he wasn’t Draco.

“Thank you,” Hyacinth said absently. She tried not to dwell on what it would feel like if Draco’s hands had been the ones on her waist—if he had used his strength to help her dismount. She failed. It was time to accept that she would never know.

“You’re welcome, Heiress Potter,” the boy replied with an exaggerated bow. It was too deep; he acted like a shameless suck-up.

A snort of disgust sounded off to her right, and she turned to see Draco glaring at her and the boy. What had she done now? “Heir Malfoy?” For once, he didn’t snap at her. What he did was worse. He gave her the sharpest nod he ever had, and then continued marching toward a hippogriff as if her presence was of less consequence to him than a Muggle’s.

Her heart tore.

She didn’t understand what she had done! She had never ordered him to keep her company. She had never tried to take advantage of him. She didn’t get it! Why did he hate her?

Between one blink and the next, a hippogriff began charging at Draco. He stared at it, stunned. He was so shocked that he didn’t even reach for his wand. There would be consequences if she interfered . . . consequences he would hate. He would not thank her for saving his life. But if her options were earning his undying hatred (which she already seemed to possess), or watching him die before her eyes when she had the power to save him—there was no question of what she would do.

Because even though he hated her, she loved him.

Hyacinth had never been more grateful for the fact that Godric Gryffindor was her many, many, many times great-grandfather. It allowed her to Apparate on Hogwarts grounds; that’s what she did. She reappeared a foot in front of Draco, her wand trained on the hippogriff. It reared on its hind legs at her sudden appearance, wings flapping so hard that the fallen leaves swirled in eddies.

“Heiress Potter?” 

The hippogriff’s claws glinted in the sunlight; they were sharper than some swords she had seen. Its beak was cruelly curved, and could undoubtedly break a human’s arm with almost no force at all. If she had taken any longer, a trip to the hospital wing was the best Draco could have hoped to receive. “Touch one hair on his head, and I’ll eat you for dinner,” she snarled. She meant every word.

The hippogriff leaned down and screeched in Hyacinth’s face. Its breath smelled of rotted flesh. That’s revolting! The force of it whipped her hair into a frenzy, tangling her chin-length curls, but she didn’t have time to worry about that.

It didn’t intimidate her. She was not scared of anything she could see. Hyacinth took one step forward and peered into its reflective, intelligent eyes. “Do you think I’m joking?” She laughed in its face. “You wouldn’t be the first intelligent being a Potter killed.” The clearing was eerily silent, but she didn’t care if she frightened the students by word or deed. As long as Draco left class alive and unharmed, she would be content.

“Heiress Potter?” Draco sucked in a breath behind her, but she didn’t turn to examine his expression. She had to keep her attention on the threat. Besides, he was probably just expressing disgust for her violent behavior. 

The hippogriff stared at Hyacinth, as if testing her resolve. On this matter, nothing could get her to bend or break. She would not back down. There was only one outcome: it would not be allowed to harm Draco Malfoy. End of story. Screeching once more, softer this time, the hippogriff bowed to her. Its beak scraped the dirt. Then it beat its wings and flew off, the rest of the herd following it.

“Um, off yeh go then?” Professor Hagrid said as he scratched his matted beard.

Hyacinth swallowed and forced herself not to quail at what her actions had revealed. It didn’t matter anyway. Draco didn’t care about her, and he certainly didn’t want to be bonded to her. She stormed off before he had the chance to break her heart again. Stepping between a pureblood wizard and irate magical creatures to offer protection was a very old, very honorable, very passionate offer of bonding. It said: I value your life over my own. This world isn’t worth living in if you’re not in it.

Draco’s mother had been born Lady Narcissa Black; she was particular about the history and origins of all pureblood customs and etiquette. He knew the significance of what she had just done. 

She had to get away from there. Move faster, legs! Hyacinth started running, as if distance could erase what had just happened. By dinnertime, everyone in school would know what she had done. They would know her secret. And everyone who hated her or her family would laugh at her misfortune: Poor Potter, victim of unrequited love. Maybe she would sneak down to the kitchens and eat her supper there. At this point, she didn’t care if they thought she was a coward. She was tired of being brave all the time.

Right now, she would rather die than hear Draco turn her down—with a sneer on his face, distaste in his lovely gray eyes, and condescension in his voice. Then again, he might not even deign to give her an answer. That would be so much worse. He might ignore the whole proposal, as he had shunned her earlier greeting.

Tears pricked her eyes. “Maybe I’ll hide in the kitchen until a wizard wanders in. That’s how Mum found Dad. I could make it a family tradition.” The thought only burned.

Someone chased after her, but Hyacinth didn’t turn to see who it was. Maybe Parvati Patil, her best friend, was coming to offer some useless comfort. Either way, it wouldn’t help. She already got the wizard she wanted, Hyacinth thought unkindly. Parvati didn’t have any trouble snagging Neville. She was already bonded. She didn’t have to worry about being alone. Stop being bitter! Hyacinth was happy for her, remember?

Strong hands landed on her shoulders. Hyacinth was spun around at dizzying speeds, and then slammed against a masculine chest. Her heart skipped. “Dr—Heir Malfoy,” she rushed to correct herself, “what are you doing here?” He was touching her. He was letting her touch him!

“Don’t you dare walk away from me,” Draco hissed. His voice was all anger, but his eyes revealed only pain. “Don’t you dare turn your back on me, Hyacinth! Not after that.” His fingers dug into her shoulders, but she didn’t tell him to release her. Even if it was uncomfortable, she didn’t care. Because Draco wasn’t out of her reach. “It’s taken me seven cursed years to get your attention, and I’ll never forgive you if you turn away from me now!”

What was going on? What was he talking about?

Draco hauled her up, held her against his chest, and then claimed her lips with years of pent-up greed. Hyacinth felt light-headed, but that didn’t stop her from kissing him back with fierce passion. Finally! Even the guilt of knowing she was taking advantage of a pureblood wizard didn’t help. It wasn’t taking advantage if he started it, was it? Besides, she would stop before she ruined him. Hyacinth and her magic had ached for him for much too long, each second of each day without hope.

When he pulled back from the kiss, Hyacinth fisted her hands in Draco’s shoulder-length blond hair. His hold on her was firm, unlike the weak grip of the wizard who had helped her off the hippogriff. Draco touched her as if he was assured of his welcome. “Is this your answer, Heir Malfoy?” she asked formally.

Draco leaned down and kissed her again, greed and want and obsession roiling off every sweep of his tongue against hers. She should have stopped him. She didn’t. When he lifted his head, his eyes were deep and foggy and his cheeks were rosy. His breath was ragged as he confessed the truth. “All I’ve ever wanted was to be yours.”

Hyacinth blinked in disbelief. “What?”

He gritted his teeth. “I . . . I had this stupid idea that you would notice me if I didn’t act like everyone else. I saw how disgusted you were by the wizards who groveled for your favor. You never showed interest in any of them. You never declared your intentions for anyone.” He ducked his head. “I thought that if I kept you at arm’s length, your rebelliousness would kick in and you’d fight to get closer.” His head sunk lower. “But you never did. You just stayed away.”

She kissed him then, way beyond the bounds of propriety. Her tongue plunged into his mouth. Hyacinth waited for him to slap her and accuse her of attempting to seduce him, but he surrendered to her entirely. It was a terrifying amount of trust. “If I had known you didn’t want me to stay away,” she gasped, “then I would’ve offered for you as soon as I could.” This was what she got for being a coward.

“If you’re lying to me”—the sight of his blown pupils was distracting—“I’ll tell my mother to accept Ginevra Prewett’s offer out of pure spite,” he hissed.

Hyacinth shook with rage. She might have been reluctantly coming to the conclusion that she couldn’t have Draco earlier, but she had never entertained the thought of anyone else having him. She apparently knew the mere suggestion would break her mind. “She wouldn’t be the first witch a Potter killed.”

A dark, smug, delighted smirk graced his face. “You’d kill for me, Hyacinth?”

Oh, Draco, didn’t you understand? She would do anything for you. That was the danger that accompanied winning a Potter Lady’s heart. “Without regret.” She tugged his hair. “Without remorse.” She trailed her nails across his scalp. “Without hesitation.” Hyacinth kissed him again, reveling in the taste of chocolate frogs and the warmth of Draco’s mouth. “Without discrimination.”

Potters were the epitome of Light Magic and honorable intentions—until someone threatened what they loved. After that, there was no magic they would not delve into, no level they wouldn’t stoop to, no feud they wouldn’t start, no reputation they wouldn’t destroy, and no ritual they would not employ to have their vengeance. The true Potter family motto was Ultionem plenissimam because every Potter lived it, giving the words power. Revenge to the fullest. She believed in those words with every fiber of her being.

He stared at her. “You’re telling the truth,” Draco said.

“Yes, I am.” Hyacinth hated when he put her back on the ground, but it was probably for the best. Any longer in his arms, with this topic of conversation, and she was liable to do something very stupid. “Will your mother be upset if we don’t have an elaborate bonding ceremony where she can give you away?”

Bondings, when performed before a traditional audience, were scheduled to happen as the sun rose. It implied that light and life would shine on their bonding. Also, it symbolized the permanence of a true bond between a witch and her wizard. Because the bond would still exist every day, just as the sun would rise every dawn. He would be magnificent painted by the first light of the day.

The traditional bonding would be followed by a breakfast feast, featuring the choicest foods. No expense was spared. Exotic fruits were plentiful. Pastries were arranged in unique patterns on platters. And, of course, there would be an enormous ice sculpture of the groom’s family crest. It was left to melt, signifying his leaving his birth family to join another.

“She’ll be livid,” Draco replied. “Mother’s been planning my bonding ceremony since I was born. She won’t even let Galeria or Licinia help, and she usually lets my sisters do whatever they want.” He untangled Hyacinth’s curls with patience. “As for me, I’d rather not wait. I’d just as soon be bonded to you as quickly as you will allow.”

He would go against his mother’s wishes and tradition for her? If there had been any doubts about Draco’s feelings for her being genuine, that eradicated them. “Are you sure?” she asked.

“Very.” The hole in Draco’s magic called to her. “I’m tired of waiting.”

“So am I.” Hyacinth entwined their fingers, and then poured her magic down the hole in his, starting the bonding process. She had been a coward for too long. She would deal with Narcissa later. Her magic tumbled into his, dense and powerful. Right now, she thought, as the bond between them strengthened, I feel brave. The hole in his magic seemed to be bottomless, as it greedily sucked her magic in. She gave him more magic than it took to key someone into ancestral wards, and that was like a single raindrop to a man dying of thirst in the desert. She gave him more magic than it took to hoodwink the Sorting Hat, more magic than it took to qualify as an Unspeakable, and more magic than it took to Charm a Basilisk. By the time the bonding was complete, Hyacinth’s magic was down to the dregs.

Hyacinth didn’t care. Magical exhaustion in exchange for Draco was worth it.


	7. Gen: Harry cares for George after Fred dies.

Fred Weasley was dead.

George Weasley Apparated into the living room of the Burrow, straight from his twin’s funeral. The hem of his black robes had mud on them. Mother Magic herself was crying for Fred. Rain pounded on the roof, sounding muffled. It was a roar outside. The water on his face was a mix of raindrops and tears.

“George?”

He glanced over at Bill Weasley. His oldest brother stood behind him, his arm wrapped around Fleur’s waist. The sight of them side-by-side made him sick. Fred was supposed to be at his side; George was never meant to be alone. Mother Magic had given him a twin for a reason! George was never supposed to be alone, cut off from Fred. It was wrong—all wrong.

“Are you . . . all right?” Fleur asked.

George was tired of people asking him that. Didn’t they understand what a stupid, cruel question it was? His magic was trapped within his own body. Fred wasn’t alive, welcoming George’s magic through their twin bond, and Fred’s magic wasn’t cycling through George’s body either. He was a magical amputee, with stagnant magic. How could he possibly be all right? Fred, his other half, was dead! How could he ever be all right again?

He collapsed on the living room floor before the fireplace. George folded his knees against his chest, wrapped his arms around them, and wished that he had a Time-Turner. He would be willing to unmake creation itself if it meant that he could have Fred back. But all the Time-Turners were lost, destroyed during the Battle of the Department of Mysteries. If the Unspeakables had any, they wouldn’t let him have one, and neither would the Ministry. No one would chance something going wrong, of Voldemort winning the war, if Fred survived.

The logs in the fireplace weren’t lit. No heat seeped into the room. That was fine, though. George liked the cold. It complemented how empty he felt inside.

“I’ll get that for you,” Percy Weasley said. He prodded the logs with his wand. “Incendio.” They burned the color of Fred’s hair; George couldn’t look away. “I’m sorry, George. I-I wasn’t f-fast enough to save h-him.”

George gritted his teeth. He didn’t want to accept Percy’s apology. Percy blew off their family for years, calling them liars and spending all his time at work. He distanced himself from them in every way he could. Yet, he was the one who lived through the final battle. If Percy hadn’t shown up, Fred would’ve been at George’s side. Fred wouldn’t have been anywhere near the wall when it collapsed. The only times either of them had been injured was when they were apart. He touched his missing ear; he was desperate to hear Fred make another joke and call him “Your Holeyness”.

“Will y-you forgive m-me?” Percy whispered, tears dripping down his face.

He didn’t say anything. How could George forgive Percy, when he wasn’t able to forgive himself? 

The emptiness yawned inside him. George had never thought he would have to experience life with just three older brothers. He was used to having four of them. There was a reason that Fred came across as more vicious and vengeful. He had always seen it as his right to protect George, and would humor George’s attempts to take care of him in return. In the end, Fred was his protector. Maybe if George had done a better job imitating Fred’s role as protector, his magic wouldn’t be raging against the cage of his body right now.

“Hey, George, I got you something to drink,” Charlie said when the awkward silence stretched. He set a mug on the floor beside George when he didn’t take it. “It’s cocoa, just the way you like it.”

George closed his eyes and wished that Charlie would go away. Percy and Bill were tall and skinny, and they didn’t have as many freckles. Charlie was short and stocky, with an abundance of freckles. If his eyes weren’t blue instead of brown, George could convince himself that Fred wasn’t dead. His neck was sore from all the times he had whipped around after catching a glimpse of Charlie in his peripheral vision. All Charlie did was make things worse, even though he was trying to help. George wished he would go back to the dragon reserve in Romania and stay there until George wasted away.

“Please drink it George,” Charlie begged. “You missed breakfast.”

And dinner, and lunch, and breakfast from the day before. As well as the meals the day before that. What was the point? He couldn’t even muster up the energy to spike the food. Not even the opportunity of getting Percy to unwittingly eat a Canary Cream could rouse him, and he and Fred had plotted on how to make that happen since they first invented them!

“Georgie?” Molly Weasley’s voice wobbled. Her hands shook as she set a plate before him on the floor. “Fred would want you to eat. He a-always let you g-get your f-food first.” She petted his hair. “Please eat, Georgie. For Fred. It’s your favorite.”

The smell of his favorite homemade scones wafted up to him. George blinked, sending tears spilling down his cheeks. It was true. Even when they were at their poorest, Fred made sure George had enough to eat. He picked up one of the scones. The tears made his eyesight blurry, but not so much that he couldn’t see they were slathered in huckleberry jam. Huckleberry jam was Fred’s favorite. His mother had unknowingly mixed them up again, but it wasn’t a joke this time. He dropped the scone back onto the plate; it bounced off and smeared jam on the floor. “I’m George.”

Molly sucked in a harsh breath, and then started sobbing. “I’m s-so sorry! I’m sorry, G-Georgie! I’ll go g-get the r-raspberry jam.” She rushed to bring him a new plate, but George couldn’t turn away from the first one she had brought out. It was wrong that the scones were still there. Fred should have wolfed them down by now. “Here you g-go, Georgie.” Molly set the new plate beside the old one.

Unconsciously, George glanced to his left. Fred wasn’t there reaching for his favorite food, joking about how burning the roof of his mouth was worth it. He wasn’t sticking out his purple tongue, dyed by huckleberry jam. He wasn’t smacking Percy’s hands to keep the whole plate to himself. He wasn’t starting a contest to see who could spit seeds the farthest. He wasn’t doing anything at all, because Fred wasn’t there.

Fred Weasley was dead. George Weasley wished he were dead, too.

* * *

By the time Harry Potter finished attending all the funerals, rounding up the few Death Eaters who escaped, testifying in trial after trial, using the Elder Wand to restore Hogwarts, reorganizing the Ministry of Magic, and accepting his Orders of Merlin, all he wanted to do was curl up in bed and sleep for a week.

Instead, he went to the Burrow. Because he would never forget the night that George Weasley was keeping watch outside the tent—while they traveled the United Kingdom, desperate to find and eliminate the Horcruxes—and Fred Weasley made Harry swear on his mother’s grave that he would always watch over him. The same thing happened in reverse less than a week later, though George fingered the stump of his missing ear while he demanded the same vow.

Harry Apparated to the front step, but didn’t bother to knock before going in. Molly Weasley had told him repeatedly that he was always welcome. After closing the door, Harry leaned back against it with a deep sigh. So, he thought, this is what remains after war.

The once lively household was somber. The Weasleys spoke in whispers, instead of shouts. Laughter was a thing of the past. A pall of grief hung in the air; it felt like someone was attempting to suffocate him with sheer magical force. And though only one of their five children was buried, it would be fair to say that two had died. Harry hated the differences. Ever since Fred and George had taken Harry under their wing when he was a first year, he had never felt alone. They offered him a family, and his enemy’s allies had torn that family apart.

The guilt ate at him.

“H-Harry?” Molly smiled tremulously at him. “We’re so glad you could come. I know you’ve been busy.” She engulfed him in a warm hug.

“I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner,” Harry said, feeling guilt swamp him again. He glanced over toward the fireplace. George sat on the floor in front of it, black robes drowning his slender form as he stared at the dancing flames. They looked like the same ones he had worn to Fred’s funeral last week. “How’s he doing?” he asked.

Molly wailed and buried her face in her hands. Her whole body shook as she hunched over; if Harry didn’t know better, he would’ve thought she had just been skewered on a sword. But no blood spilled down her clothes. There was no wound that he could wave the Elder Wand to heal—not even magic could fix a broken heart.

“He won’t eat,” Bill said as he entered the living room. The scars on his face were gruesome in the evening light. “He won’t drink. He won’t talk. He won’t move from that spot.” His hands clenched into fists. He spun and punched a hole through the wall. The rage that had sustained him seemed to fail, and his shoulders slumped. “George’s dying, Harry. And his magic is helping him do it.”

Harry stumbled back, each new sentence a punch to his heart. He shouldn’t have stayed away so long; he should’ve told the people who begged for his help to do it themselves for once in their lives. He should’ve been here, at George’s side, keeping his magic from helping him die. “That’s not going to happen.” Harry enunciated each word, as if by saying it he could make it reality. His will was a powerful thing.

“We’ve tried everything, H-Harry. There’s n-nothing more we can do.” Molly fell to her knees, and Bill rushed to his mother’s side. 

Harry knew what a blessing having twins was to a pureblood family, and losing George less than a month after Fred died would tear what remained of this once-loving family to shreds. They would see it as a failure to protect the conjoined souls Mother Magic had given them to watch over. Harry figured the twins were why Molly and Arthur had stopped having children, even though Molly wanted a daughter. She feared Mother Magic would punish her for being greedy, and that she wouldn’t have the time to take proper care of all her sons.

“You might not be able to do anything,” Harry said, “but I can.” He took a step toward George’s still, silent form on the floor. He had a vow to keep. He wouldn’t let anything get in his way.

Bill grabbed Harry’s arm in a firm grip, successfully gaining his attention. Bill observed Harry for over a minute. Then he said, “Whatever you have to do, do it. We’ll forgive you for anything, as long as he lives.”

Harry pulled his arm away and walked over to George. Bill’s desperate, ritual words echoed in his head; Bill had invoked the trade of forgiveness. In the Weasleys’ eyes, regardless of what Harry did, the ends would justify the means. He knew that the Weasleys would forgive him for what he was about to do, but he didn’t think George would.

Crouching before him, Harry got a good look at his face. George’s brown eyes stared right through him, as if he weren’t there. It was like meeting Fred’s dead gaze all over again. He hated it. “George Weasley,” Harry said, voice laced with magic, “I call on the Twin-Sworn Vow.” Magical twins were bound by each other’s word. That was why they were so careful about saying anything ritualistic. He hated to do this, but Fred would never forgive him if he let George die. And, more importantly, Harry would never forgive himself.

George blinked. “What do . . . you want . . . Harry?” His voice was tired, cracked, and monotone. It was a whisper of breath, as if his throat was parched.

Harry licked his lips apprehensively, but George’s pupils didn’t follow the motion. Why in the world had he been cavorting around the wizarding world? He should have been here! He should have stopped George’s deterioration. The wrist that peeked from his sleeve was skin and bones. His face was gaunt. He had lost too much weight, and the twins had never carried much extra, if any. They prided themselves on being fit. “George Weasley, I choose thee to serve as First Vassal for the Honorable and Most Ancient House of Potter.” Once the ritual words were said, he wrapped his thumb and forefinger around George’s wrist. “And I want you to take care of yourself and ensure you are always in peak health.”

Molly and Bill gasped, but Harry didn’t look over to see their reactions. It didn’t signify. His request had been made, and George would have no choice but to grant it.

“Do you really think you can take Fred’s place?” George whispered. “Won’t you just let me . . . rest in peace?”

Harry wanted nothing more than to look away from George’s broken gaze. If Bill hadn’t explained how dehydrated he was, the lack of tears wouldn’t have been at the forefront of Harry’s mind. Now he couldn’t help but wonder if George desperately wanted to cry, but wasn’t able to do so. “No, I won’t. You’re too young to die, George.”

“Fred was too young to die.”

“Yes,” Harry agreed. “He was.” His thighs started to burn, so Harry sat on the floor. The heat from the fireplace wasn’t comforting. It brought to mind the time he, Fred, and George had roasted marshmallows over it and made s’mores with chocolate frogs. Harry would always prefer indoor camping over outdoor camping, especially when the latter meant Death Eater attacks at the Quidditch World Cup and hunting for Horcruxes. “But just as I promised you I’d take care of Fred, I swore to Fred that I’d take care of you.” Harry stared at him. “Are you going to make me break my Twin-Sworn Vow with Fred?”

A First Vassal and Lord of an Ancient House shared magic. It would cycle from one to the other in a never-ending loop. It mimicked a twin bond. However, it wasn’t the same. Harry would never dishonor Fred’s memory by claiming it was. But it would stabilize George’s magic by giving it somewhere to go. It wouldn’t sit stagnant and help assassinate its master. By naming George his First Vassal, Harry was creating a pathway for George’s magic to follow. In essence, Harry was forcing George’s magic to keep him alive.

A single tear dripped down George’s left cheek as life returned to his eyes. “I hate you, Harry Potter. I’ll never forgive you for this.”

“I know.” It was a simple, merciless truth. And Harry only held the barest hope of ever being able to change it. But it was better to have one of the twins in his life, regardless of the circumstances, than to have neither of them. So, Harry hugged George, encircled him in the Potter family magic, and accepted reality. This, he reminded himself, is what remains after war.


	8. Viktor Krum/Female Harry Potter: The Quidditch World Cup One

Harriet Potter sat in the stands at the Quidditch World Cup, enjoying the lack of attention. Who knew that a simple eye-corrective potion, a haircut, and clothes that actually fit would make her unrecognizable?

Sirius Black, obviously, since it had been his idea all along.

She still almost couldn't believe all of the changes that had occurred in her life over the past three months. Most amazing of all was that they had been positive! Her godfather had been cleared of all the false accusations, Pettigrew had been Kissed, and she no longer had to live with the Dursleys.

Since Hogwarts had closed for summer break, Harriet and Sirius had been able to live together. He had mentioned, in passing, selling his terrible childhood home in London. Then he had hired goblins to fix up the house in Godric's Hollow that her parents had been living in when they were attacked by Voldemort; he was determined to make good memories there, saying he wanted to do it right. She had seen him casting a spell that took several hours, and then heard him muttering about keeping the secret one hundred percent safe . . . but she still wasn't sure what he had meant.

"Enjoying the anonymity, Pup?" asked Sirius. He grinned at her.

Harriet nodded, a smile on her face. "Yes! It's nice that everyone isn't staring at me," she replied, unconsciously raising a hand to her forehead. Sirius had taught her a make-up glamour charm that covered the scar; not even a hint of it showed.

"Eh? That Krum's not bad," Sirius muttered before flagging down a wizard in yellow robes to place a bet.

Rolling her eyes at her godfather's compulsive gambling—he had a serious problem—she turned her attention back to the game. The Irish National Team was winning, but not because the Bulgarians were weak. In fact, the Bulgarians were flying brilliantly. It just seemed that luck favored the Irish, as amusing as that may be. However, Sirius was right about Krum. He was stunning, pulling maneuver after maneuver that she either hadn't mastered yet, or hadn't worked up the courage to attempt.

The sight of the Irish Seeker crashing into the turf and ripping the grass up in furrows made her wince. But more than she felt bad for the utter humiliation of the downed Seeker, she felt impressed with Krum's skills.

Ever since Harriet had come to the wizarding world, it seemed like everyone around her was lazy—except Hermione and the Ravenclaws. They never seemed to practice or apply themselves to anything. This made no sense to Harriet. It was magic! Magic! How could they not want to practice all day?

Seeing Krum swoop through the air, so quickly that smoke sometimes followed him, she couldn't help but flush a bit. Even a dunderhead would be able to tell that he was dedicated to Quidditch, and that he likely spent more time in the air than he did on the ground. She would guess that he was the type of man who looked weird walking, because nothing could match the grace of him on his broomstick.

The sound of Sirius cackling drew her gaze. He was rubbing his hands together. "Krum is definitely going to catch the Snitch. Money for me. Money for me. All to be spent frivolously!" he sang. Harriet snorted and grinned at her godfather. With the generous settlement from the Ministry of Magic for wrongful imprisonment, Sirius had splurged excessively. She hadn't known it was possible to splurge in excess, but he had done it. He had been forced to add additional rooms to the house just to hold all of the stuff that he bought her and himself. And despite the fact that he was overdoing it, she couldn't bear to tell him to stop. He had been in Azkaban for over ten years.

If he wanted to melt ten thousand Galleons in a cauldron and then bathe in it, she would just tell him it was a great idea.

Harriet went to push her hair behind her right ear, only for her fingertips to meet air. She blushed and glanced away, as if she hadn't just done that. It was a habit she had had for many, many years. Now, though, Aunt Petunia wasn't around to insist that she grow her hair out and wear it long. When Sirius had suggested she get a pixie cut, she had jumped at the chance: anything to be different and new. So now her hair was very short and soft. She loved it to death, but she still wasn't used to it.

She jolted back to the present when Viktor Krum went streaking past on his broom; he flew so quickly that the wind in his wake ruffled her hair. Harriet gasped, hands clenched together as she leaned forward in her seat. For a moment, she thought he was going to crash into the stands. He didn't. The Irish Seeker chased him, but he wasn't gaining much ground. The Snitch flapped closer to Krum, never evading him by much.

"You can do it," she whispered as Krum zipped past her again, going the opposite way. For just a second, she thought he heard her, because she would swear he glanced at her from the corner of his eye . . . but that's a silly notion. A professional Seeker would never take his eye off the Snitch, and especially not in the World Cup.

Then, between one blink and the next, he had it. Golden wings fluttered through the cage his fingers made; the announcer was screaming Ireland's victory, but spent the majority of his time describing how talented Viktor Krum was to catch the Snitch. Harriet knew she wouldn't have been able to get it, even with the Irish Seeker's injuries. At least, she didn't think she could. Maybe that was part of success? Maybe she needed to believe she would get it every time, no matter how long the odds were.

"Ready to leave, Pup?" Sirius asked, eyes sparkling. "I have money to collect. We should go for ice cream! No, gelato! Have you ever been to wizarding Italy? They have the best—"

A throat cleared beside her. Harriet looked up to see Viktor Krum hovering in the air, shoulders tense.

Harriet and Sirius had front row tickets, because "Marauders only deserve the best". She glanced toward Sirius, and then back to Krum; he was staring right at her. "Uh, can I help you?" What could he possibly want with me?

"For you." He opened his hand and thrust it toward her. The game's Snitch lay on his callused palm; it was still.

"Me?" she squeaked, cheeks reddening. He was giving her the Snitch? Why? It wasn't because she was the girl-who-lived, was it? But he was from Bulgaria or something. Would he even know who she was?

"For you," he repeated, thick brows drawn together in a scowl.

"Um, thank you?" It came out sounding like a question, but he didn't object. So Harriet took the Snitch from him. It was of much higher quality than the one they used at Hogwarts. She caressed it and slid it into her pocket.

Instead of leaving, Krum turned his intense gaze on Sirius. "You are being her father?" he asked.

Sirius's eyes narrowed. He glanced from Krum to her, and then he started snickering. "Godfather. But I am her guardian," he added, though Harriet couldn't understand why.

"Oh. I see," Krum said. He focused on Harriet for a moment, as if checking to see if she was still herself—which made even less sense than this entire bizarre encounter already did. (Ron was going to go crazy when he found out about this; she had met Viktor Krum!) After turning back to Sirius again, Krum said, "We are haffing much better ice cream in Germany than the Italians are haffing gelato."

Huh? What did that have to do with anything?

Smirking, Sirius nudged her with his elbow. "Well, Pup, what do you want? Ice cream? Gelato?"

Harriet wrinkled her nose. Was gelato like jell-O? Aunt Petunia had made her eat that for a month straight once, insisting she was overweight. It had been revolting. "Ice cream," she stated. Ice cream was delicious; it reminded her of the previous summer, when she had spent a great deal of time with Mr. Fortescue. He made her sundaes that ruined her appetite, and ice cream cones that wouldn't melt. She loved ice cream!

"Is seffen acceptable?" Krum asked Sirius.

Sirius chuckled as her head swung between them. "Seven is perfect."

"Perfect for wh—?" Before she could finish her question, Krum flew forward and hooked an arm around her waist. He hefted her into the air as if she didn't weigh anything, and then plopped her on his lap, one arm wound around her waist. What in the world is happening?

"Enjoy your first date! Have fun! Be safe!" Sirius yelled as he waved his hand enthusiastically through the air. "See you later, Pup. Remember . . . never kiss on the first date!"

She was so stunned at the words escaping Sirius's mouth that she didn't even blush. She sat still, shocked, as Viktor slid a chain over her neck. Before she could offer a protest, or even really understand what was happening, Krum had spoken and a hooking sensation caught her stomach. The force of the Portkey shoved her back against his chest, causing him to tighten his grip.

They reappeared beneath a sky that was pale purple, the sun just starting to set. Oh, right. Wasn't Germany an hour ahead? Wait, Germany? She was in Germany with someone she had spoken less than ten words to. What the heck?

"Vot is being your fafforite ice cream?" Krum asked, as if he hadn't just basically kidnapped her (with her godfather's permission) to another country for a date she hadn't agreed to.

But when she opened her mouth, a tirade didn't spill out. Neither did hysterical protests. Instead, Harriet said, "Chocolate."

Krum smiled against her neck. "Mine is also being chocolate." He chuckled as he steered them down toward the skyline. "Yes, I think is vorking very vell."

Sighing, Harriet leaned her full weight against his chest. He only tightened his hold again. She had no idea what he was talking about, but decided it would be best to not try and understand the lunacy of the past five minutes. She would just let Viktor Krum—the world-famous Seeker—take her out for chocolate ice cream, and then forget this ever happened.

Because there was no chance Sirius was serious about Krum's intentions. This couldn't be a real date . . . could it?


	9. Harry Potter/Daphne Greengrass: The Boggart One

Harry Potter glared at Severus Snape as the man declared they would be facing boggarts in their first class as a "test". Harry knew the spiteful jerk just wanted to see what would terrify Harry the most; he was probably hoping for front row seats to see Sirius fall through the cursed veil.

"Those unable to adequately overcome this minor annoyance will not be allowed into my Defense class this year. I put up with you dunderheads in Potions because I had no choice; now that you're sixth-years, I can ban you for incompetence."

Gritting his teeth, Harry fisted his hand atop his left thigh. He knew Dumbledore wouldn't let Snape kick him out of the class, because he needed training for the war. However, he could honestly say he would rather have Lockhart back as a teacher than deal with Snape's ridicule. The git was more likely to hinder him than help, as he had proven just a few months ago.

"Don't worry, Harry. You'll be fine," Hermione whispered from beside him.

"Five points from Gryffindor for talking," snapped Snape. He sneered at Harry, though he hadn't said a single word. Harry didn't object, though. That would be the quickest way to make Snape happy, and it was Harry's goal in life to make him as miserable as possible.

He wouldn't let Snape's negligence toward Sirius's demise go unpunished. Because of insipid pettiness on his professor's part, his godfather had died. That was unforgivable. Harry had officially declared a blood feud against Snape, though he doubted the man knew it; he was too self-absorbed to notice or understand such things.

Others weren't. Harry knew the feud had been officially noted in the Ministry books, and the distance several students kept from Snape this year—when they had previously not seemed to mind him—informed him that more than one pureblood was disgusted with the lack of honor and respect the man paid pureblood Lords.

He had only gotten away with belittling Harry over the years because Harry hadn't yet been sixteen; he had only been an heir at the time. Some could see such demeaning circumstances as character building. However, blatantly attacking a pureblood Lord reduced Snape to less than a Muggle in the eyes of many.

Harry had observed more than one Slytherin avoiding Snape whenever possible, and Snape probably thought it was about some Voldemort related issue. Fool. Pureblood pride and honor came before everything—even a Dark Lord.

Even Malfoy had curled his lips in distaste at his previously favorite professor.

"Potter."

Leaning back in his seat, Harry folded his arms across his chest and stared at Snape without saying a word. He didn't have to respond to that. Honestly, with the blood feud he didn't have to speak to Snape at all.

"Potter, are you ignoring me? Is the illustrious Boy Who Lived too good for Defense lessons?" Snape goaded him.

"Oi! Harry can fight Voldemort and live. A boggart is no problem for him, you—"

"Silence, Weasley! I wasn't talking to you, though it's no surprise you had to insert your nose in Potter's business like a Crup. Ten points from Gryffindor!"

Harry could hear Malfoy snickering a few rows back as Ron flushed an unflattering shade of red. He reached over and patted Ron on the shoulder before staring at Snape blankly. "He's a loyal friend. But then, you wouldn't know anything about that, seeing as you have no friends and don't know the meaning of the word 'loyal' . . . sir."

Snape paled until he resembled the gargoyle that guarded the Headmaster's office in color, as well as visage. "Detention for a month, Potter," he spat.

Harry glanced down at his nails and rubbed them against his chest, pretending he hadn't heard a word. It didn't matter anyway; it's not like he would be attending them.

Just as Snape opened his mouth to spew another idiotic comment, bitterness lacing each word, Ron stood from his seat. "I'll face the boggart then. We're not afraid," he said, gesturing at the table Neville, Harry, Hermione, and Ron occupied before glancing at the Slytherins with a grin.

When more than one of the Slytherin boys puffed up their chests, Harry had to fight back a grin. They were so easy to rile; it was pathetic.

Ron approached the chest beside Snape's desk and kicked the lid open. For a moment there was a formless blob, and then the bodies of his family members lay on the ground, lifeless and broken. He gazed at them in horror for just a moment, but then clearly enunciated, "Riddikulus!" He snorted before walking back to the table. "Like Harry will ever let that happen." The entire Boggart-Weasley family was eating a Sunday family dinner behind him.

Instead of feeling pressured, or as if a weight had been dropped on him, Harry felt relieved. Ron's unwavering faith since their brief spat during fourth year had sustained him through pain and tragedy more than once. When it came down to it, he knew he wasn't alone.

Almost before he could blink, Hermione stood facing the boggart. It changed from raucous Weasleys into herself. She was sitting alone in a chair, tears streaming down her face, watching the other Gryffindors talk and play games without her. Everyone passed her by as if she didn't exist.

As she watched the unbearable loneliness on her face, Harry scoffed. "Like I'll ever let that happen."

The comment jolted her into motion, and she smiled over her shoulder at him before muttering, "Riddikulus." Boggart-Hermione was suddenly whispering into Harry's ear as he battled Ron at chess; the two of them were still losing.

Neville took her place, and the three of them stopped laughing and transformed into a cackling Bellatrix Lestrange. "Ickle Longbottom is cwying like his cwazy mummy and daddy. Crucio!"

He didn't flinch. His eyes narrowed viciously, hand clutching his wand, as he said, "Harry's going to let me kill you." It was true, too. While Harry had lost his godfather, Neville had lost his parents.

Everyone in the class but Harry and Neville jerked in shock when Neville shouted, "Riddikulus!" and the spell came out the color of the Killing Curse; it slammed into the Boggart-Bellatrix and she tumbled to the floor, her head making a loud smacking sound as it met stone.

As students backed away from Neville, Harry fought the urge to laugh. What did they think would happen? That Neville, now Lord Longbottom because his father was unable to hold the title, would change her into Snape in his grandmother's clothing? A lot could change in three years, and Neville had become a formidable wizard; there was no doubt about that.

The sound of Harry's chair scraping across the floor drew all attention to him. He stood up and twirled his wand confidently just to annoy Snape as he sauntered to the front of the room. Whispering spread across the room, and he would wager that half expected the usual dementor, and the rest figured that Voldemort would appear.

Harry leaned his hip against the front table, where Daphne Greengrass was sitting with Tracey Davis and Millicent Bulstrode. He yawned, as if bored, and then waited for Bellatrix's corpse—a most lovely sight—to change.

A skeletal, winged horse appeared before him; it was a thestral. This one looked exhausted and bonier than any other he had ever seen.

"Oh, come on! That's impossible!"

"I thought for sure it would be a dementor. . . ."

"But he knows the Patronus Charm now, doesn't he? So why should he be scared of them anymore?"

"How can he be afraid of nothing?" Malfoy shrieked.

"Because he's Harry Potter," someone said, as if that explained everything.

It suddenly dawned on Harry that the other students couldn't see the thestral. Then again, they likely hadn't been exposed to danger as often as he had. They still had their innocence; it hadn't been shattered as people were murdered before them. They were the lucky ones.

"I wish you were right," he muttered. If only he was scared of nothing, his life would be much easier.

Snape's face was a sneer of derision, but he didn't correct the students' false assumption that Harry was fearless. He briefly wondered why, but then dismissed the thought. Snape's thought processes would never make sense to him, so why bother?

A smooth hand suddenly wrapped around his. Harry blinked, shocked, and then turned to see Daphne had placed her hand over his on the desk. Her deep blue eyes held compassion and understanding, and Harry realized that she knew what it was like to helplessly watch someone else die.

Daphne understood, as no one else their age did—except Luna. And Luna had lost part of her mind when her mother died; she was slightly insane. Daphne, however, wasn't. Just like him, she had somehow managed to keep it together.

That was beyond impressive.

She lowered her eyes and withdrew her hand. Daphne mouthed an apology for touching him without permission, but he knew she hadn't meant it in a proprietary way; she had simply been offering him comfort—another pleasure not often extended to the great Harry Potter: Boy Who Lived.

In his genealogy studies, he had learned that her father had died shortly before Daphne started at Hogwarts, and though her mother was suspected, there was no proof to convict her. Wizengamot laws forbid pureblood heirs and heiresses from testifying in court when they were minors, and no magical person could be compelled to testify against a blood relative. So even if she had been an eyewitness to her mother killing her father, she would've never been able to do anything about it.

The thought alone was . . . twisted and sick.

Undeniably curious now about what her greatest fear would be, Harry pulled out Daphne's chair and offered his hand. Silence descended on the room as she accepted it and got to her feet with his assistance.

"What's he doing?" Goyle asked as Harry stepped to the side, guiding Daphne closer to the boggart.

"Greengrass accepted his hand?" Pansy Parkinson gasped, looking as shocked as he imagined she would if Malfoy actually declared his intention to marry her. Harry didn't know why she was so surprised. It was a mere courtesy to a Lady. He wasn't an uncultured heathen!

"Put a sock in it, Parkinson!" Parvati Patil hissed. "I think it's sweet."

"They're so—so—so—they look good together!" Lavender Brown squealed.

The thestral altered after a moment into a golden contract; it lay on the stone floor—the contrast between glittering gold and dull gray almost painful. Daphne inhaled and swayed as if she would faint any moment. Harry took a quick step forward so she could lean her back against his chest, and then placed his hands on her waist to keep her steady.

Only Harry, Daphne, and Snape were in a position to read what the contract said. His eyes skimmed over the words and then jumped back to the beginning so he wouldn't miss a single clause.

Mind-numbing horror and disgust consumed Harry as he read it, unable to believe something so vile could possibly exist. Daphne trembled against him, and he unconsciously tightened his grip and rested his chin on the top of her head as he kept reading.

"Improper . . ."

"Embracing her in public like a common . . ."

"Who does he think he is?"

"What right does he have to touch her like that?"

The questions grew louder and more daring the longer Harry stayed wrapped around Daphne, but she didn't object or attempt to fight her way out of his embrace. In fact, she pressed her back into his chest as if she thought she could hide herself and forever escape the cursed contract.

When Harry reached the end of the contract, he bit his lip and gazed at the wall. That contract was evil, and her mother was on par with Voldemort, though he had never thought such a thing could be possible. But this—it was wrong. So wrong.

And he potentially had the power to stop it from happening.

Harry released his hold on Daphne and took a step back; he carefully cupped her shoulders and turned her around to face him. She looked positively ill, and her eyes were empty of hope.

"Is this real?" asked Harry.

She nodded wordlessly, her blonde hair swishing lifelessly behind her.

His grip on her shoulders tightened at the affirmative. "Has it been signed yet?"

Very slowly, she shook her head. That was all he needed to know. Voldemort had already ruined too many lives; he wouldn't let that monster have her. The thought that Voldemort wanted a sixteen-year-old as his consort was revolting. That her mother had offered her without a thought was unconscionable.

It wasn't even a betrothal or bonding contract. It stated, in fancy language, that her body would belong to Voldemort. Her mother was going to sell her like a common prostitute to the wizard who had murdered Harry's parents. That was just . . . he had no words to describe how evil that was.

Determination stamped across his features, Harry reached forward and pulled Daphne's wand from her hand. Gasps sounded through the room, but Harry ignored them. By taking away her means of defense, he was claiming Daphne as being under his personal protection, and by default under the protection of everyone with Potter or Black blood in their veins.

Harry twirled his wand around and offered it to her handle first. That broke the silence.

"Harry, are you sure?" Hermione asked.

"Mate, don't you think that's a little hasty?" Ron hollered.

"Don't you dare, Potter! She's . . ."

"Oh! It's so romantic!" Lavender giggled to Parvati.

Daphne's fingertips traced along his wand, but didn't curl around it. Her nails kissed the holly and then stilled. She glanced up at him from beneath her lashes, still shuddering. But now there was a spark of hope in her eyes. "Are you sure?" she asked, echoing Hermione's question.

It was a legitimate question. Was he sure? Was he ready to pledge his magic, his wand, to someone—to her—Daphne Greengrass. Was he ready for marriage? A wife of his own? A family?

"I am." This was the right thing to do. He knew they could be happy together; they were both lonely and just wanted love. His wand grew hot in his hand, beating with magic alongside hers, as if they were living hearts in his hands.

Slowly, as if she expected him to change his mind at any second, Daphne tugged his wand free of his grasp. Once it resided in her hand, both wands lit up and sparkling white ribbons erupted from both, shooting out to encase both Harry and Daphne.

A loud furor exploded through the classroom, but they both ignored it and the yelling students as they clutched the wands tightly. When the ribbons slid inside them and joined with their cores, plaiting their magic together, Harry felt warmer and safer than he ever had in his entire life.

Grinning widely, he traced her wand down her cheek. After she mimicked the action, he bent down and captured her lips with his. It was obviously her first kiss, and she tasted clean and pure both on his lips and in his heart.

He reluctantly parted their lips and then rested his forehead against hers. Harry tangled his wand-free hand in her hair and whispered, "Hello, Lady Potter."

She flushed, glancing away briefly before returning her gaze to meet his. "Hello, Husband."

A shiver raced down his spine at her chosen address. The word resounded through him, singing along with his magic, filling him with a symphony of dreams for the future.

He hadn't planned on bonding so soon, and certainly not before Voldemort was vanquished, but this felt right. Dumbledore had said that love was the 'power the Dark Lord knows not'.

Staring into Daphne's emotion-filled eyes, Harry didn't doubt that they were starting a quest for love. He had never failed to complete a quest yet. Failure wasn't an option.

Harry feathered his hand through her hair, and then accepted his wand back as he returned hers. He slid their hands against each other until he could entwine their fingers. "Let's get out of here." He led her past the sputtering and gaping students, some of whom glared viciously at them, and to the door.

"Potter, class isn't over! If you walk out that door I'll—"

"Your petty threats hold no influence in my life. Neither does your opinion. My wife and I will do as we please," said Harry, before gifting Snape with a cutting glare and exiting the room.

Once they were alone in the corridor, Daphne stopped moving. The abrupt halt caught his attention and he turned to face her. Her lower lip quivered as she vowed, "I won't be the death of you."

Harry cradled her against his chest and kissed her silky hair. "I never imagined you would be, Daphne."

"I'm ashamed that my mother, the perfect pureblood," she sneered, "acted so dishonorably. Especially when your mother stood with honor and courage in the face of certain death."

Harry's eyes burned and he swallowed roughly, tongue feeling thick in his mouth.

"I won't shame the title you've given me, Harry. I swear I won't bring dishonor to the name Lady Potter. I'll prove myself worthy of your kindness!" Her hands scrabbled at the front of his robes and she stared up at him beseechingly, as if she could make him feel her sincerity. She succeeded; it traveled down their bond and filled him. She meant every word.

Harry wanted to tell her that she didn't have to prove anything to him, but knew such a comment would offend her. Pureblood witches always felt the need to prove themselves; it was how they were raised. Each little girl was informed daily that she needed to be perfect, to follow the guidelines, to obey protocol, and so on. They had to eternally prove they were the right choice: beautiful, graceful, powerful, elegant, and so on.

There was only one way he felt he could make her see that she didn't have to try with him; he only wanted her to be herself.

Sliding a hand under her chin, Harry forced himself to speak the words that brought unimaginable pain to his heart and resurrected the worst of his nightmares. "Daphne, when we have children, would you be willing to die for them?"

She blushed at the word "children", and then paled when he mentioned their hypothetical offspring dying. "Without a moment's hesitation," whispered Daphne.

Harry closed his eyes and shoved away the memories of his mother's screams. "That's all the proof I need. That love makes you a true Lady Potter."

Tension melted away and she collapsed fully against him. "Are you sure?" she asked, as if she couldn't believe that was all he required.

His answer was honest and identical to the one he had given ten minutes ago. "I am." He shut his eyes and held her tightly, vowing with all his magic that two living, loving parents would raise the next generation of Potters.


	10. Harry Potter/Hermione Granger: The New Blood Conundrum

Harry Potter stormed up the stairs to Gryffindor tower, magic swirling about him. If one more little girl—seriously, the last one had been a second year!—sauntered up to him and curtseyed or batted her eyelashes at him, he was going to go mental. He preferred life back when he was simply the blasted boy-who-lived and had no idea about the Potter and Black Lordships. Unfortunately, the cursed titles attracted the pureblood brats like fleas on a mutt.

Now, don't get him wrong. Harry didn't hate them, per se; he just wished that they all would leave him alone and stop angling to become his future wife. He didn't care how fragile and dainty they were, or any of that rubbish. Why would he ever be attracted to a child? He shuddered. Some of them, crude as it may be to say so, had less curves than a pencil. It was just wrong.

"Oh, my lord," he purred, mimicking them as he stomped up the stairs, "I'm so weak. Catch me. Cue swoon." How Malfoy could put up with such ridiculousness on a regular basis, he didn't know. However, his estimation of his childhood rival had risen several notches. Some of the little chits were worse than Parkinson: clingy to the extreme.

He stopped to spin in a circle, and almost fell down the stairs as a result. The girls did that all the time, as if to ask: Aren't I pretty? Look at me! I'm like a china doll! Harry had never been attracted to that kind of beauty, though. He didn't want something fragile and untouchable. Dolls were too easy to break. He wanted something that had been through the fires of hell and came out resolute—like a lump of coal that was pressured into becoming a diamond. He wanted fire, strength, and someone he didn't have to worry about protecting all the time.

Harry desired a witch who could take care of herself. Her own magical prowess should be enough to keep her safe—not threats of his family name or magic. His mum had died to keep him safe, and he would expect the same from his future wife. Unless someone was willing to sacrifice everything to be with him, and always remain with him, then they weren't worthy of his attention, let alone a passing glance.

Sprinting up the last few stairs, Harry skidded to a stop before the portrait. What was the password again?

"Password, dearie?" the fat lady asked.

"Um . . ." What was it? He knew it had been changed last night, but he couldn't remember what Hermione Granger had said the new one was. He had been exhausted last night, and had too much trouble paying attention. McGonagall was surely going to slaughter his essay with red ink.

"Well?" the fat lady asked.

"Can't you just let me in?" grumbled Harry. She had been the guardian portrait since he was a first-year, excluding that short time in third year. There was no doubt that he belonged in Gryffindor.

"Of course not, dearie. You might be Polyjuiced," she replied.

Well, he couldn't discount that possibility. After all, that was how he and Ron Weasley had snuck into the Slytherin common room back in second year. So Harry, quite impatient at this point, snapped, "Well, I'm not!"

Thankfully, the portrait swung open as a third-year hustled out, dodging wild-eyed around Harry. "S-sorry, Potter!"

Instead of asking "What for?" Harry just said, "It's fine." He didn't remember the boy's name, but he was probably a pureblood. Ever since he had gotten to Hogwarts for the start of his sixth year, the girls had been bombarding him with their 'charms', and the boys apologized for no reason or tried to befriend him. He knew it had to do with allies and hierarchy and all that—had even done the research to figure out why everyone was acting so oddly toward him—but didn't hold with any of that nonsense.

It was easy for him to understand why his godfather, Sirius Black, had rebelled against such rules. If he had been raised in a household that regulated everything from what you could wear, to what you could eat, to what you could say, to whom you could be seen with, then he would have run away, too!

The pureblood heirs and heiresses were like mindless little drones, each desperate to be perfect. It made him laugh. Humans could not be perfect. Their urgent attempts to be flawless just made all the flaws and jagged edges more noticeable. What did outer beauty matter if they were all hideous inside? They were grasping, greedy, envious, selfish, stuck-up, overly proud snobs. And the last thing he wanted to do was get sucked into their circle of influence.

Harry stepped into the common room and then pulled up short. Ron was kissing Lavender Brown on the couch. No, scratch that. Ron was eating Lavender's face. He felt his stomach turn, but, thankfully, his lunch decided not to make a reappearance. Was that drool . . . ? He winced. Gross!

It only took him a moment to wonder where Hermione was once the scene had processed. Hadn't she and Ron been on the verge of finally getting together? That's what he had thought, but now. . . . He found Hermione in the room. She was sitting on a chair, curled up before a window, her face turned to the side. Her fingers were white as they clutched her wand on the arm of the chair. That, more than anything else, told Harry that whatever had happened was Ron's fault. Don't get him wrong: Ron's his best friend, but he tended to overreact when his emotions were involved.

Taking an aborted step forward, Harry chewed his lower lip. His mental tirade about what he wanted in a girl only fit one person that he had ever met. Hermione was the only one who had never truly turned her back on him—not even when she thought he was cheating in Potions by using the Half-Blood Prince's book. And he knew that she was more upset because he didn't require their daily tutoring sessions in that subject anymore. Once she had understood that he wasn't replacing her, she had calmed down and apologized.

Harry had always felt something for her, but he hadn't grasped the depth of it until the battle in the Department of Mysteries. When Dolohov hit Hermione with the purple flames and she collapsed, he had gone spare. For much too long, he had believed her dead. Just as his mother was dead. He had wondered if he was destined to lose all the women who would support him unconditionally . . . but she had lived.

Instead of making a move then, he had backed off. Because anyone with a pair of eyes could see that Ron fancied her. He had assumed she fancied Ron as well. But maybe, Harry thought as he watched Ron and Lavender snog, this will be the straw that breaks the camel's back.

"Hey Hermione!" Harry yelled, drawing the attention of everyone in the common room as he strode toward her chair. "I was wondering if you'd be my date to Slughorn's Christmas party."

Ron paled, but didn't untangle himself from Lavender.

Hermione's face was conspicuously absent of tears. "Are you sure, Harry?" she asked.

"Of course. I need someone with bony elbows to keep me awake through his speeches. After all, he knows everyone," Harry said with great exaggeration and a grin on his face.

"Harry," Hermione tutted. "It's quite rude to fall asleep when someone's speaking." There was a gentle smile on her face, though. Her brown eyes sparkled.

"So, what do you say? Will you put me out of my misery and be my arm candy?" Harry teased, eyebrows wiggling playfully.

Hermione stood, slapped his arm, and then put her hands on her hips. "Harry Potter, I am no man's arm candy!" He wouldn't have been surprised if she stomped her foot for emphasis, as she had done when she was younger. She didn't this time, and he found that he missed it. Her passion was something he adored about her personality; she didn't believe in quitting.

Smirking, Harry rubbed his arm. She hadn't hit him that hard, but he would play it up for their audience. "Abuse! Are prefects allowed to slap students?"

"Oh, Harry," she sighed with fond exasperation.

"Fine, Hermione, I give in. Will you allow me to be your arm candy at Slughorn's Christmas party?" He batted his eyelashes at her, silently mocking all the little girls who thought they could lure him in like a fish on a line. "I promise I clean up well."

Hermione's laughter was warm and delightful; it was also contagious. He found himself laughing with her, as usually happened. "I don't know if you're sweet enough to be arm candy, Harry," she teased back.

Before Harry could retort, a younger Gryffindor with wiry blond curls stepped over to Harry. "Lord Potter, she's a . . . New Blood," the boy said, pausing before the last word, as if it had been a rushed substitution.

Hermione's eyes darkened with pain, and she fell silent. Harry ground his teeth together and reminded himself that he wasn't supposed to curse or hex kids. That would make him a bully; he had no desire to be anything like Dudley Dursley. "What's your name?"

"Eoghan McLaggen," the boy replied with a smile, shoulders straight.

Probably Cormac McLaggen's younger brother. There should've been a school rule that only one massive git could be allowed per house. But then, most of the students wouldn't be able to get an education, would they? "Thank you," Harry said. Then he looked down his nose and asked, "Do you think I'm an idiot, Eoghan?"

Eoghan gulped and shook his head. "N-no," he stuttered.

"Then why would you think that someone's blood status matters to me?" asked Harry. The implication was blatant: Anyone who worries about another's blood status is an idiot.

"I-I just . . . . You're Lord Potter," Eoghan finished.

"Really? I had no idea. Thank you for informing me. I'll just change everything about myself to coincide with the pureblood ideology, shall I? Would that suit you?" inquired Harry, sneering.

"Harry," Hermione admonished, breaking the silence that fell after his comment. "Be nice! He's just a child."

Harry snorted and looked away from the cringing boy. Her refusal to let anyone be bullied, though he was most assuredly not bullying Eoghan, made him want to have her at his side always. He trusted her to stand firm and tell him when he was taking something too far; he trusted her to ground him, and to remind him that sometimes he had to be the adult in a situation. Perhaps that was the secret of true love in the Potter family: finding a woman who was equally as strong and wouldn't cave to any pressure. "He's old enough to know better."

"Well, yes . . ." Hermione couldn't help but agree.

"Hermione, would you go with me to the Christmas party?" Harry asked again, as if they had never been interrupted.

"Y-you really don't care that she's a New Blood?" inquired Eoghan, seeming confused and stunned.

Harry sighed. Honestly, he felt bad for the purebloods. They were basically brainwashed from birth to believe a certain way, and because of that they couldn't handle failure, changes, or spontaneity. They had no real coping skills, and the Muggle world would eat them alive. It was a fatal weakness, and not one that he would help perpetuate. "No, I don't care." He bent down and spoke with absolute clarity. "My mum was a New Blood. If a New Blood was good enough for my father, then a New Blood is good enough for me, despite the excessive titles I'm given."

Hermione beamed at him, her cheeks turning a fetching shade of red.

"Y-you'd bond with her?" Eoghan asked.

"We're only sixteen!" Hermione protested, face rubicund. "That's much too young to be thinking about—"

"Sure I would," Harry replied with a shrug. "When we're older, of course. Not right now. I still have to kill Voldemort, after all."

Eoghan squeaked and paled.

"And graduate," Hermione interjected.

Harry chuckled. "And graduate. But when we're older, why wouldn't I? She's Hermione," Harry said, as if that settled the issue. To him, it did. Hermione was strong, faithful, loyal, dependable, intelligent, and pretty. What wasn't to like? "Assuming, of course, that she'd have me," Harry concluded with a goofy grin.

"Well of course I'd have you, Harry! You're you, aren't you?" She fluttered her hands, as if she had said something brainless and silly. "I mean . . ." Hermione cleared her throat and folded her arms across her chest. "If we should ever reach the point of mutual emotional attachment and respect, then it would be logical to progress to a permanent commitment."

Harry winked at Eoghan. "That means she thinks I'm fit and wants to spend her life with me, bearing genius babies that make Malfoy's kids look like idiots."

"Harry Potter, I did not say that!" Hermione protested, though her lips kept twitching as she slapped his arm again. "Don't put words in my mouth!"

Unable to resist the urge—okay, so unwilling would be more accurate—Harry stepped forward and asked, "Would you rather I put my tongue in it?" In his opinion, all the restrictions on physical contact were the stupidest pureblood rules. He didn't want to throw Hermione on a bed and have his wicked way with her (until she was his wife, because Sirius had told him his dad waited for his mum), but he wanted to be able to hug and kiss her whenever he felt like it, without being required to feel guilty about expressing his feelings.

"I-I . . ." she stuttered.

"You never answered my question," Harry said, feeling happy and smug. It took quite a bit to get Hermione truly flustered. Every time he succeeded, it felt like he had accomplished a Herculean task.

"Yes," she replied, as she jutted her chin out.

"'Yes' you want me to put my tongue in your mouth, or 'yes' you want to go to the Christmas party with me as your arm candy?" he asked. It took every ounce of self-control he possessed to keep a straight face.

Hermione stared him right in the eyes; the smirk on her face was wicked. She stood tall and proud, no longer slouching with embarrassment, even though everyone in the common room was silently watching the unfolding drama. Ron was gawping like a goldfish; it was amusing. "You're smart when you want to be, Harry." She strolled forward, rolling her hips from side to side, and brushed against him, pausing only long enough to say, "Why don't you figure it out?"

Sucking in a deep breath, he shuddered as she moved past him. Oh, he would figure it out. If the Marauder luck held, her answer would be 'yes' to both. He grinned as he pictured attending the Christmas party in fancy Muggle clothes. The purebloods would be utterly horrified. But not as scandalized as they would be when he shoved Hermione against a wall, underneath the mistletoe, and kissed the living daylights out of her. He'd wager that she tasted like courage and knowledge, and he couldn't wait to prove it.


	11. Harry Potter/Female Blaise Zabini: The Collar One

“Remove your hand from my person, at once!”

Harry Potter felt rage cloud his mind as the adamant words reached his ears. He always secretly enjoyed listening to her voice; it was husky and lyrical, luring him closer with each succulent syllable.

However, these were words that should never leave her lips. Harry might not have declared his intentions yet, but that didn’t mean anyone else had the right to touch the woman he had chosen as his future wife.

“Don’t be like that, Blaise.”

The familiarity of the address had Harry biting his tongue in an effort to keep the incantation of the Killing Curse from erupting past his lips. His fingers clutched his wand, which had leapt into his palm at the first word from the bastard’s lips. It was Zacharias Smith; he would recognize that voice anywhere. Harry’s dislike for the Hufflepuff transformed into hatred without a moment’s delay.

It took precisely five steps forward for Harry to reach the corner. Each was as silent as the one before it. He turned to his left and swallowed the impulse to scream the Cruciatus Curse at Zacharias. The sleazy Hufflepuff blocked her from view, but he could just see Smith’s pasty hand tightly grasping her shoulder.

“Let me go!” she hissed. The sound contained equal parts of anger and fear; it was the hint of fear that finally made Harry snap.

Harry thrust the tip of his holly wand into the base of Zacharias’s skull. “Let the lady go.” The words came out with a sibilant edge to them, treading the precipice of not-quite-Parseltongue. 

Zacharias’s hand clenched more tightly on Blaise’s shoulder, and a soft moan of pain filled the air. “This has nothing to do with you, Potter. I have every right to be here.”

The tip of Harry’s wand began to glow as his magic growled beneath his skin. “Are you deaf, Smith? She said ‘no’!”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Zacharias scoffed. “She’s my fiancée, and I can—”

The mere thought of anyone else possessing Blaise Zabini sent a wave of black over Harry’s mind, as if his conscience had been veiled. It was a lie. Such an engagement would have been announced in the Daily Prophet.

“I am not,” she spat.

“I know what I’m talking about,” Harry said through gritted teeth. The wall he had managed to erect in his mind to keep Voldemort out was fracturing. Incantations that Harry had never spoken danced through his head, each accompanied by graphic visuals of the damage that would appear as a result. “Do you know who you’re dealing with, little Hufflepuff?”

“The bloody boy-who-lived. I’m so scared,” Zacharias mocked.

“You should be,” Harry purred throatily. “After all, I share a mind with Voldemort.” Zacharias flinched at the name, and his magic trembled around him. “Did you know, little Hufflepuff, that the Sorting Hat wanted to put me in Slytherin?” Zacharias’s hand shook on Blaise’s shoulder. “It took me a while to convince it to put me in Gryffindor, but I succeeded.” The hand slackened, but didn’t leave her body. 

“You w-wouldn’t—”

“Wouldn’t I?”

Blaise’s husky voice whispered a familiar incantation, and a massive king cobra landed at their feet, its body weaving in the air as it observed them. Harry briefly wondered why she hadn’t done that earlier, and then caught a glimpse of Zacharias’s other hand; it was loosely holding the shaft of her wand. He must’ve had it pinned in place before Harry scared him.

“Thank you, my lady,” Harry said, livid at the thought of what might’ve happened if he hadn’t decided to take a walk shortly before dinner.

“The pleasure’s mine,” said Blaise.

Zacharias inhaled deeply and straightened his shoulders, reaffirming his grip on Blaise. “You wouldn’t dare.”

Harry snorted, lips stretched in a macabre grin. “Oh? And who would ever believe that the boy-who-lived set a venomous snake on a Hufflepuff?”

“I would,” Blaise said.

The chuckle that Harry expelled was full of dark delight. “That’s only because you’re not fooled but what you see, my dear.” When she didn’t object to the borderline endearment, pleasure tingled along his nerves.

“Don’t call my fiancée—”

“You’re remarkably dim for a pureblood,” Harry said conversationally, as his magic directed the cobra to entwine itself around Zacharias’s legs. “I daresay even Malfoy would’ve been smart enough to let her go and back the bloody hell off by now.”

Zacharias spluttered. “I’m nothing like that prat!”

“Do you have a death wish?” Blaise asked him deridingly.

“Don’t speak to me like that!” he snarled.

The wall that kept Voldemort imprisoned cracked a little more. “Smith, if you don’t release her immediately, I swear on my godfather’s death that I’ll order the cobra to remove your ability to continue your bloodline.”

The blood drained from Zacharias’s face, and he swayed at the threat. Everything Harry and Blaise had said must have finally sunk through his thick skull, because he leapt away from both of them, only to tumble to the floor as the cobra tripped him. “Get it off me, Potter! Get it off!” he shrieked like a little girl.

Smirking, Harry hissed, “Come here, beautiful.” The cobra unwound itself and slithered over to Harry, its flared hood brushing against his thigh. He reached down and gently stroked its scales as Zacharias clambered to his feet and sprinted away from them.

Harry lifted the snake into the air and offered it to Blaise, cocking an eyebrow in challenge as he presented it to her. She leant forward and kissed its shiny, black scales. Harry fought the surge of jealousy and blinked dispassionately as she calmly banished it. His hands felt empty as they hovered in the air, relieved of their burden.

She straightened before him, hazel eyes narrow and introspective. They glimmered a deep shade of aureate in the torchlight. Her chestnut hair cascaded down to her hips in loose waves, perfectly complementing her mocha skin. She was fierce, exotic, and the only woman that had ever held his interest for more than a week. Blaise Zabini wasn’t foolish enough to believe what she was told, or what she saw, as so many other witches were. She was intelligent enough to see and hear what others didn’t. He admired her for that.

Zacharias’s words sneaked into his mind again, and Harry tried to blot them out to no avail. Even though she had already denied it, he needed to hear it again. “Tell me he’s not your fiancé,” Harry demanded.

“He’s not,” she agreed, eyes narrowing to slits as she stared at him thoughtfully.

Blaise seemed to come to a decision, because she stepped forward until his hands, which were still hovering in the air, landed on her shoulders. “Erase his touch.”

It was the sweetest and most agonizing command he had ever been given. For the love of Merlin, do not lose control, he thought desperately. This was her way of saying thank you, and he had never felt gratitude as dearly as now. Oh-so-gently, he cupped her shoulders, and then kissed his palms down her arms. Her school robes covered her skin, but it was still almost unbearably intimate.

It was also improper, but he didn’t care one whit. She had given him permission, and that was all he needed to assuage his sense of honor.

“Why me?” asked Blaise, plump lips caressing the question.

Harry didn’t pretend ignorance; he knew what she meant. “Because you’re mine,” he replied. His fingertips trailed down her slender fingers before releasing her entirely. His magic spiraled forward and teased alongside hers, taunting it into tangling and twisting. “Can’t you feel it?”

“Yes,” she murmured, cheeks heating as their magic masterfully mingled.

His heart was pounding so loudly in his ears that he was afraid it might explode. “Will you accept it?”

She withdrew her magic, sheltering it beneath her untouchable skin. Her gaze drifted downward and landed on her wand, which had so recently proven useless in protecting her.

Every second she remained silent resulted in melting mortar. Mumbled spells lurked behind the wall, seeping through ruptured gaps. Voldemort knew words that would make her choose Harry, love him, worship him, and obey his every whim.

He didn’t want her like that, though; he wanted her warm and willing in his arms. He wanted what his father had earned—the love of the only witch who would ever matter.

“I will.”

Triumph pounded through his veins, singing of celebration and primal victory. She had not only refused Zacharias, but she had accepted Harry. He was the victor. That made Blaise his.

Adrenaline made his hands shake as he slid the platinum ring off his smallest right finger. He spun it in his palm, magic stretching it until it regained its true form: an elegant, platinum collar bearing the Potter family crest.

Blaise traced the crest with a manicured nail, eyes wide with wonder. “I didn’t think you were this serious,” she breathed.

“I have never been more serious in my life.” The collar didn’t exactly have a name, but it served many purposes. It was a protection collar, a bloodline collar, and much more. Any man who sought to touch her as Zacharias had today would be severely injured by the magic in the collar. She would belong to the House of Potter and receive the ultimate protection it could offer her.

“Some witches would take this as an insult,” Blaise said lowly. “They would assume you either thought they were too weak to protect themselves, or that you feared they would be unfaithful to you.”

In olden times, such collars were mandatory in marriages; they ensured all children were legitimate and witches were faithful to their husbands. The law had been altered centuries ago, and now such precautions were optional.

“You’re not ‘some witch’, Blaise,” Harry said, cutting right to the heart of the matter and savoring the taste of her name on his tongue. 

She glared at him, but mimicked the breach in protocol by saying, “No, I’m not, Harry.”

He wanted nothing more than to bend down and devour his name from her lips. Now wasn’t the right time, though. This conversation was much too important for him to get distracted. “Then you should know my real reasons for presenting this collar.”

Blaise nodded and gathered her glorious hair in one hand; she pulled the chocolate fall of hair over one shoulder and turned around, presenting her back and bare neck to him.

Harry gasped at the implicit invitation and raised the collar high in exultation. “Because I treasure you,” he confessed. “Because you’re the only one for me. Because no one else deserves you. Because I still want to peel his flesh from his bones for placing his hand so near something only I and our children should ever touch.” She arched her neck, and Harry nuzzled it lightly. “Because I trust you. Because I’ll never betray you. Because this way”—he sealed the collar around her throat—“nothing can ever separate us.”

His magic erupted like a volcano, shooting out to coat Blaise’s body from head-to-toe; she glittered like light refracting off broken crystal. Then her magic solidified for a moment, and a gleaming aureate rope stretched from the collar to wrap around Harry’s hand, binding her to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Potter—but, more importantly, to him.

A loud ruckus drew his attention, and Harry turned around just in time to see the Slytherins and Hufflepuffs turn the corner and come to a standstill. Mouths flapped soundlessly as the students stared at him and Blaise.

“What in Merlin’s name have you done, Zabini?”

“Harry Potter, you didn’t!”

Zacharias Smith was red in the face, and he took a threatening step forward, likely buoyed by the many witnesses now present. “What did you do, you bastard? She’s min—”

“Mine!” Harry snarled as he wrapped an arm around Blaise’s waist and guided her to his side.

“You forced her into this!” Zacharias yelled, one finger pointed straight at Harry. “You filthy, little—”

Ernie McMillan stepped forward and slapped a hand over Zacharias’s mouth. When Zacharias pulled away, Justin Finch-Fletchley’s took its place.

“Shut up, Smith,” Susan Bones said. “She’s wearing Harry’s collar, and a witch has to be completely willing for it to seal in place; he couldn’t have threatened her into it, not that Harry would. Jealousy isn’t a becoming trait.”

Parkinson’s nose was wrinkled in disgust as she said, “Even I have to agree that Potter is a better choice than Smith. But really, Zabini, did you have to pick a—”

“It’s Potter, not Zabini,” Blaise said imperiously. “And like Bones said, jealousy isn’t a becoming trait, Pansy.”

“What?” Parkinson screeched.

“Everyone knows Malfoy isn’t half the wizard Harry is,” Blaise said smugly as she leaned against Harry. “Face the truth! We both know Malfoy would never offer his wife a collar, because then he would have to be faithful. I’ll let you in on a little secret, Pansy, dearest,” she sneered. “I’m the first in over five decades who’s been found worthy enough for this distinction.” She caressed the collar, taunting the audience before them.

Harry groaned softly at the sight and discreetly fisted a hand in her hair. The smirk on her face heated his blood and serenaded him. She wasn’t like the weak pureblood women who never stood up for themselves and accepted their lot in life; she was a spitfire, overflowing with passion and life. He hungered for her alone. Blaise had unknowingly—or perhaps, knowingly—captivated him from afar. She had seduced his heart away, until every beat whispered her name in a silent susurration of magic.

Harry had long since understood why his father had refused to cease pursing his mother. Once a Potter male met the right witch, no other could ever hope to compare in a favorable manner.

As several of the students tittered and chuckled at the slew of insults, Malfoy lifted his arm and brandished his wand at Blaise. Reason skittered away as Harry calculated the threat and brought the full force of his magic to bear down on Malfoy’s pitiful aura. “Are you sure that’s what you want to do, Malfoy?” He spoke the words exactly as Voldemort had spoken them at the last Death Eater meeting, a sibilant threat.

Malfoy paled and mindlessly said, “No, my lord.” He lowered his wand.

The Slytherins and Hufflepuffs both looked confused at the title, but it pleased Harry. Let them assume that Malfoy was showing respect to the Lord of an Ancient House; Malfoy was, after all, only an heir to one. They alone would understand the very real threat that lived in Harry’s head, always looking for a path to freedom.

Blaise turned her head toward him, which tugged his fingers and returned Harry to the present situation. He had never seen anything more stunning than Blaise, and she was something he would share with no one but his future children.

Mine, he hissed toward the cracking wall in his head. All mine. Harry concentrated, sealing the imperfections in the mental prison more tightly than he ever had before. He wouldn’t allow Voldemort to leak out and poison their magic, taint their bond, and join it.

Once it was impenetrable, he blinked.

“I tire of our audience. I want you to myself,” Harry whispered in her ear.

Blaise acquiesced, though her magic translated her nervousness to him. “As you wish,” she murmured in response. Her magic shrunk with fear for a moment, and then calmed quickly, as if hiding her true emotions.

Harry led her down the hallway, away from the chattering students. His magic hung behind them in the air, shielding them from anyone idiotic enough to launch an attack. Once they turned the next corner, he stopped and tilted her head up with a finger under her chin.

“I’ll wait until you’re ready, Blaise. I would never coerce you in this matter. I only meant that I want to hold you in my arms tonight,” he explained. He breathed a sigh of relief when her magic relaxed, as if he had soothed its feathers. “You will always have the right to refuse me,” he assured her. “I vow I will never abuse my rights when it comes to you.”

Instead of thanking him verbally, Blaise tangled her fingers with his and placed them on the collar. “Until I’m ready, remember to touch this whenever you need reassurance that I’m yours.” Her cheeks burned with embarrassment at the topic, but she didn’t shy away from the need for such an important conversation. “And even after you claim me,” she uttered, eyes locked with his, “touch the collar to remind yourself I willingly became yours.”

Harry curled their joined hands around the collar, fingers brushing along cool metal and petal-soft skin. Every cell of his body bespoke its need as his solemn vow was given birth. “I will.”


	12. Harry Potter/Susan Bones: The Post-War Get Together One

“The war is over.”

Harry Potter breathed the words into the chilly air as if those four words spoken in that moment made it true. They possessed a solemnity, a finality, as if he hadn’t vanquished Voldemort almost five months ago. A cloud of air accompanied them, lifting the truth into the afternoon sky and setting it free.

As soon as the breath of fog dissipated, he had an irrational urge to reach out and fist the words. What if voicing them made them false?

Harry dragged his hand down his face, hiding from the world. He was exhausted, and sleep was nothing more than a daydream. Oddly enough, nightmares weren’t what kept him awake for an unhealthy amount of time; if it was something that simple, he would’ve taken a Dreamless Sleep Potion and crashed for however long he could manage. The empty seats at the house tables didn’t keep his eyes open, remembering past classmates. Ginny’s relationship with Michael Corner didn’t steal his rest either.

She kept him awake.

“You tear my heart to pieces,” said Harry, another cloud of breath carrying his words off. He shoved his hands in his pockets and stared mindlessly at the tossing waves of the Black Lake. The sight reminded him of easier times, back when Voldemort was a deformed thing, back when Cedric Diggory was alive, and Harry’s greatest worry was avoiding Snape.

Harry crouched down, and then sat on the massive rock behind him. His trousers became damp, and he gave a fleeting thought to the robes he had left in his dorm room that morning. The cold, hard surface of the boulder supported him and kept him steady as his thoughts raged.

Before the war, Harry had hardly ever noticed her; he had very rarely spoken to her. Then again, he had barely any contact with students from the other houses until fifth year, preferring to keep close to Ron and Hermione. Even when his circle of influence grew, he didn’t really reach out to anyone. It was only now that he consciously understood why. Harry was afraid of losing anyone important to him, and Ron and Hermione were his best friends; he couldn’t risk that by befriending anyone—not when he was young and insecure.

“Poor me,” he muttered sarcastically.

Maturity leant itself to open-mindedness in his case, and Harry was just starting to see how closed-off and self-centered he had been. In protecting himself from potential rejection and harm, he had managed to reject many others.

She, however, despite the loss of so many relatives in the first war, had always had a smile on her face, and a kind word for everyone. That was before the second war, before Voldemort murdered her aunt, and before the Death Eaters systematically eliminated everyone else closely related to her.

“I lost Sirius and Remus, who I barely knew, and I fell apart.” He closed his eyes in remembrance. “She lost her aunt and her parents, and she’s still . . .” Harry gulped, wishing he could say that she was all right. It wouldn’t be the truth, though. She still came to school, still worked unbelievably hard, and still helped others, but her smile was broken now; it never reached her eyes. Her eyes didn’t sparkle, her cheeks didn’t dimple, and her laugh was never more than a rasping whisper.

“I want to fix you, Susan Bones.”

It was a foolish desire, because she wasn’t a defective toy that he could just mend. Even if he used the Resurrection Stone, the shades he returned to her wouldn’t be her lost loved ones; such an effort would be useless, causing more harm than good.

The splintered smile and lusterless laugh cut at him, grating along his magic. Each time he saw her or heard her speak, he felt an overwhelming urge to use the Elder Wand, as if it were a panacea, to make everything better. The childish wish, and his magic’s push to help, only served to frustrate him. He had never been good at talking to strangers, and the last thing he wanted was for her to think his sentiments were insincere. She deserved better than that, better than him.

But he knew he couldn’t let her go.

The sound of crinkling paper filled the air as he withdrew his hand from his pocket and smoothed out the sheet. If Hermione found out he had ripped a page out of a library book, she would’ve killed him. However, the book had anti-copy charms on it, and he was too stunned to write it out by hand. He had torn out the page and fled the library before even considering his actions.

Harry stared at the picture of the lovely white flower in disbelief as he read the information again. Susan meant “lily”, and “lily” meant “to be joyful, bright, or cheerful”. What were the odds that the meaning of Susan’s name was his mother’s own name? He would wager they were astronomical. It fit her, though. Before the war Susan had been joyful, cheerful, and bright. Harry longed to return her to her former glory.

Before, when he was dating Cho and Ginny, Harry had never felt this all-encompassing need to know. He hadn’t been overcome with a desire to protect his girlfriend from anything. His greatest desire hadn’t been bringing a smile to their faces. Now that he saw the depth of Susan’s suffering, he understood the other girls had been mere passing fancies; he finally understood what could have kept his father going for years in the face of constant refusals.

“One smile would be worth all the effort. One kiss would be a dream come true,” he sighed. He scrunched the page back up and stuffed it in his pocket, eyes locked on the crashing waves once more.

If he had to repeat the second task at this exact moment, he knew a different redhead would await him at the bottom of the lake. It would be a witch, not a wizard. She wouldn’t have any freckles, and her hair would be closer to a burnished bronze than ginger. But most importantly, she would have no idea why she had been chosen as Harry Potter’s hostage, and she wouldn’t expect him to actually come save her. 

And that would never change if he didn’t openly pursue her.

James Potter never let anyone doubt his determination to win Lily Evans. Harry figured it was about time he should follow in his father’s footsteps. Using a spell he had found in one of his father’s journals (after he explored the Potter family vault, following the war), he Transfigured multiple blades of grass into a beautiful bouquet of flowers. A white lily for chastity, because he knew Susan to be a virtuous witch. A Peruvian lily for friendship, because he wanted her to know she could always come to him. A white stargazer lily for sympathy, because he understood what it was like to lose everyone you loved. A pink stargazer for prosperity and wealth, because he was Lord of two Noble and Most Ancient Houses, and could provide whatever she desired. Lilies of the valley, because he was devoted to her and wanted nothing more than to humbly beg for her affection and love.

Harry inhaled the sweet fragrance, garnered his courage, and strode away from the lake. The walk back to the school seemed to take five times as long as the trip to the lake had. Probably because his attention was focused firmly on the possible outcomes of his current actions.

Following the war, witches and wizards had leapt into relationships without a second thought for the consequences. Many were so relieved that Voldemort was gone that they had forsaken all propriety. He had the misfortune of stumbling across Malfoy and more than one girl in a compromising position. And though he would never reveal their names, his map had informed him about assignations between two pureblood witches and (from the overlapping dots) their lovers.

While Harry was thrilled the threat of Voldemort was gone, he didn’t believe jumping into bed with anyone was an appropriate way to celebrate. Perhaps it was the Dursleys’ constant rants on “trollops”. Perhaps it was Sirius’s assertion that any witch worth marrying would never offer her virginity to anyone but her bonded husband. 

Perhaps it was his father’s words, written in elegant handwriting, describing how a portion of the Potter family magic worked—alerting its master or mistress to the filthiness and darkness of others as a way to keep them safe. Witches who gave away their chastity outside of wedlock felt dirty, for lack of a better word, to Harry’s magic. According to his father, that was because they were blessed with the ability to give life to the next generation, and such unions could only be blessed by Magic inside marriage. Love making was a literal joining of two peoples’ magic, and without the bond they didn’t meld together, just rubbed shards off on each other like cat hair sticking to clothes.

This ability was how he knew that Neville Longbottom and Hannah Abbot had bonded over the weekend, even though they hadn’t announced it yet. It was also how he knew Susan Bones hadn’t lost herself in lust to try to escape the grief and pain that ate away at her. Susan felt more pure than every other of age witch in Hogwarts, including some of the bonded ones.

“What if she’s not interested?” 

As soon as the question escaped his lips, he paused. He had long since gotten over the inane desire to be “just Harry”. Sirius had helped him acknowledge his place in society and all the good his name could do. Titles were power, and “Harry Potter, Boy Who Lived, Savior of the Wizarding World, Chosen One, Lord of the Noble and Most Ancient Houses of Potter and Black, Vanquisher of V-------t, and Conqueror, meant he could essentially do whatever he wanted and people supported his decisions.

That didn’t mean Susan would want her name attached to his, though. She might have no desire to be thrust into the limelight and stand at his side. His wife would be revered by many of the wizards for being his chosen, and reviled by most of the witches out of jealousy.

Most of all, though, he didn’t want Susan to think she had to accept his offering because he had killed Voldemort—thus avenging her family’s deaths.

Harry knew many witches in her position would accept him for variable reasons: honor, lust, a desire for power, to be the lady of two Ancient Houses, or simply to be seen with him. He was placing all his trust in the Sorting Hat and what he knew of Amelia Bones. If Susan accepted him, it would be because she loved him, and she would remain loyal all her life.

His hands trembled as he continued toward the school and up the front steps. Now that the war was over and everyone was pairing off, he felt even more alone than he had before. Now that he was not only of age, but the confirmed Lord of his Houses, it felt like half his magic was missing. He needed a companion. His magic fairly begged for completion and nudged him toward Susan, reaching out to caress her whenever they were in the same room. Her own magic never rose to meet his, but she also never asked him to cease . . . so he could only hope that meant she was truly interested in him and was showing restraint, instead of throwing herself at him as a countless number of witches had during the past five months.

Gossip spread like Fiendfyre the second he stepped into the entrance hall and people saw him carrying the bouquet. Anyone with a pureblood education would know what they meant; everyone else would just see Harry Potter with flowers, which meant he had to be giving them to someone.

“Who do you think they’re for?”

“He spends a lot of time with Granger and Lovegood.”

“Think she’ll say yes?”

“Quite daring arrangement if you ask me!”

“So sweet! I hope they’re for me.”

“Are you crazy? They’re obviously for me!”

Several witches whipped out their wands and began casting hexes and jinxes at each other, but Harry only rolled his eyes. Immaturity was the last thing he needed in a partner. Poise was clearly undervalued by the petty witches battling for his favor; it was a pointless fight, and they all should have known that.

Harry’s magic suddenly stretched out eagerly, like a puppy seeking affection. He glanced toward the pull just in time to see Hannah and Susan step off the main staircase. Their eyebrows were lifted in disbelief as they glanced around the entrance hall. Susan’s lips didn’t curve at the ridiculous sight, and her eyes showed only a passing interest. She seemed detached from the whole scene, as if she were a ghost observing silly humans, and not a living person herself.

Dad succeeded. So can you, Harry thought as he stiffened his shoulders.

One step led to another, and Harry was soon striding across the entrance hall, removing the distance that separated him from Susan. His magic twined through her gorgeous, burnished-red hair, insinuating itself through her long plait. It mimicked the bonding process, in which magical melding was sometimes referred to as plaiting or braiding.

He didn’t stop until he reached her.

Susan glanced up at him, her face blank and her magic tucked into her skin. He hated seeing her like this; he missed her passion, her fire, the brilliant eyes, and radiant smile. He wanted to feel and sense her presence, not just see her with his eyes.

“Harry?”

Even spoken without inflection, his name sounded right coming from her mouth. His magic practically tangled itself in her hair in response.

Harry took a deep breath and savored that one word. She was one of the few people who he didn’t mind addressing him so familiarly. A name had power and spoke of certain levels of intimacy, and he desperately wanted to hear her address him one day as “husband” and “love”.

He swept into an elegant bow, lowering himself farther than protocol demanded; he bowed deeper than he ever had to anyone before. When his head was level with her chest, he peeked up and silently offered her the bouquet of lilies.

“Her? I’m prettier than her!”

“She’s so uptight, Potter. I can serve you better.”

“I’ll be happy to provide you with heirs!” more than one witch exclaimed. “We can practice right now!”

Pretending the nattering, uncouth witches didn’t exist was hard, but not impossible. More than once he wanted to hex someone’s mouth shut. He could barely believe that multiple women were blatantly propositioning him in public. Had they no shame? The young and pure witches had no need to hear such filthy and lewd comments! Utterly disgusted, he erected a silencing barrier around them, so Susan and Hannah wouldn’t be bombarded with inappropriate words.

“I’m sorry you had to hear that,” he said, anger and embarrassment giving his cheeks a red tinge.

“It’s not the first time,” said Hannah. Her nose was wrinkled as she stared out at the witches whose mouths kept flapping. “They have no shame.”

Susan’s fingers traced the edges of the lilies. The sight of her slender fingers caressing the smooth petals transfixed Harry. Her left ring finger was bare, but he wouldn’t let it remain that way, as long as she was consenting, of course. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, she gently tugged the bouquet from his grasp.

Triumph caused his face to split in an enormous grin as he straightened before her. He stared at her face, awed by the tender smile that curved her lips. Her eyes were sparkling with pleasure.

Susan’s eyes never left his face as she carefully removed the white lily from the bouquet. Her hand was steady as she offered it back to him—the flower that symbolized her chastity, her purity, her innocence, and her love.

His breath snagged in his chest, knotting into an unrecognizable mess as emotion consumed Harry. He cupped it in his palms, ensuring he would never damage such a priceless gift and proving that he would protect and honor it. 

“Innocence is fragile,” whispered Susan.

“I know how to handle priceless items with care,” Harry vowed. He would never abuse the sacred gift she was giving him—herself.

Susan stepped away from Hannah, moving slightly closer to Harry. Absolute trust filled the emptiness of her features as she studied him openly. “Your word, Lord Potter?”

His heart trilled at the request. Liquid honor ran in every Potter’s veins. Once their word was given, it was absolute. They could not renege, even in death. “I’ll be gentle. I’ll treasure you all my days.”

Then Susan’s magic spilled from her skin, escaping its confines and rushing to meet Harry’s. They clashed and coalesced, melding into perfect harmony. Harry clutched her to his chest and closed his eyes, fighting back tears as they bonded. She filled the raw, gaping wound that existed inside him.

For the first time in his entire life, he felt whole.


	13. Theodore Nott/Female Harry Potter: The Peacock Animagus One

Hailey Potter was fourteen years old when the Order’s most secret spy stealthily saved her from the graveyard. One minute she was dodging dark curses, and the next she was standing next to a beautiful fountain in an immaculate garden. Before she could even wonder where she was, or how she had come to be there, Narcissa Malfoy rounded the nearest hedge. Narcissa appraised her thoughtfully before saying, “You have potential. Cousin James has given me much to work with. I’ll make a lady of you yet.”

Unable to comprehend what exactly Narcissa had said, Hailey merely stared in disbelief. Was this yet another trap of Voldemort’s? Somehow, it didn’t seem like his style; she hadn’t been assaulted yet.

“What do you mean by that?” whispered Hailey. She stared at Narcissa, untrusting of the entire situation. This made no sense whatsoever. What could Narcissa possibly gain from a statement like that? Besides, they weren’t really related, were they?

Lucius Malfoy appeared behind his wife, pausing to place a hand on her shoulder. “The peacocks have arrived, darling. She’ll blend right in when necessary.”

Hailey, despite the fatigue that dragged at her body, pointed her wand at Lucius and Narcissa. “I don’t know what you’re planning, but I’ll have no part in it.” Her breathing felt labored as she contemplated Lucius’s words. How could he possibly know that she was an Animagus? 

She still remembered the look of amusement on Sirius’s face when she shifted for the first time. He had laughed loudly, and then began teasing her about being secretly vain and proud. He hadn’t done the research, as Hailey had once she realized what her form would be. Male peacocks might strut about flashily, all arrogant, and beg for attention, but peahens, their female counterpart, successfully hid away in the brush—or crowd, as it were—and avoided drawing attention. Peacocks sought out peahens, as people sought out Hailey Potter. 

However, it would take more than a human peacock—flashy and bedecked with riches—to win her over.

When she delved into foreign magical beliefs surrounding the peahen, she found that it was often associated with royalty, eternal life, love, compassionate watchfulness, good will, nurturing, and kind-heartedness. The peahen was depicted more than once as giving up her eternal life to help humanity. Hailey knew that had she been immortal, she would have gladly cast it aside to erase Voldemort from existence.

“And the resemblance is acceptable?” Narcissa asked, as if Hailey weren’t threatening them at wand-point.

“Uncanny, darling. No one will be able to tell she’s not really one of them,” Lucius assured his wife.

Hailey hadn’t registered her Animagus form, and she had only completed the transformation a little over a month ago. Where could they have learned her secret? Ron and Hermione didn’t even know she had been taking lessons from Sirius . . . Sirius!

As if the thought had summoned him, her godfather padded around the corner. It took him very little time to morph from a massive, shaggy dog into a somewhat bedraggled man. “Hello, Hailey.” He waved one arm dramatically. “And welcome to our plan.”

“Sirius,” she ground out cautiously. If he hadn’t come as a dog, she would’ve assumed he was someone else under Polyjuice. However, Animagus forms couldn’t be duplicated. “What plan would this be?”

“The Make Sure Hailey Lives and Is Safe From Voldemort While We Find and Destroy His Horcruxes Plan!” Sirius said grandly.

Something about the way Sirius said ‘Horcruxes’ sent shivers down Hailey’s spine. For the first time in years, she didn’t want to know something. The word felt dirty in her mind and made her scar throb with unpleasant delight. She didn’t want to befoul her tongue with its darkness, because it felt evil. Her magic rippled with disgust, causing her stomach to revolt; she barely managed to keep her long-past meal from resurfacing.

“How are you going to accomplish that?” asked Hailey. She didn’t want to die, and she didn’t want to be a martyr either. Her parents had given their lives to save hers, and dying would be spitting in the face of their sacrifice. She couldn’t remember anything of them but the day Voldemort killed them. She wished she had memories though, that she could have grown up under their care. What would she be like? How would her life be different? Would she have felt loved, as she longed to feel?

“I’ve purchased several albino peacocks,” Lucius said succinctly. “Whenever the wards alert us that company is arriving, you will transform and hide amongst them. It’s best to keep something hidden in plain sight.”

“And when I’m not a peahen?”

“Then you will reside with us in the manor, behind extensive wards,” Narcissa said. She smiled, and its genuineness shocked Hailey. “It will be my honor to teach you all that a proper pureblood lady needs to know. That way you will be prepared for your eventual marriage following the war.”

That little speech birthed many, many questions in Hailey’s mind. However, one seemed more important than the rest, because that statement made the least sense to her. “Why would I need to know how a proper pureblood lady acts? I’ve been told quite vehemently that I’m a ‘filthy half-blood’ more than once—and by your son, no less.”

Sirius spun around and glared at Lucius. “What have you been teaching the boy?”

“Better than that,” Lucius muttered. “I’ll certainly have a word with him when he returns for the summer holiday.”

“I must apologize for Draco’s ill-mannered tongue,” said Narcissa most vociferously. “We will have words with him.” She frowned, pulling her lips down in a way that shouldn’t have been, but was, somehow elegant. 

“Hailey, pup—hmm, can I still call you that if you’re a peahen? I wonder what a baby peahen is—”

“Do focus, Sirius,” Lucius drawled. “If you’re capable of it, that is.”

Sirius glared at him before turning back to face Hailey, who was beginning to suspect that she had fallen down a magical rabbit hole of some sort. They were all mental! “I’m your godfather and Alice Longbottom is your godmother. We’re both purebloods. Magical godparents are tied by blood and magic to their godchildren. So, basically, our bloodlines plus James’s erase any ‘taint’”—he made air-quotes around the word as it passed his grimacing lips—“that Lily’s Muggle blood would have caused.”

Hailey swayed as the last traces of adrenalin in her system crashed. Her grip loosened, and she almost dropped her wand on the manicured lawn. Her head ached fiercely, her arm was still burning from where Pettigrew had cut her open, and all this new information kept blending together with the flash of green light that had ended Cedric Diggory’s life. She couldn’t do this right now; she needed to—“Sleep. Just let me sleep.”

And then, overwhelmed, Hailey crumpled toward the fountain.

(o)

Hailey startled awake, wings flapping wildly as she struggled to reorient herself to the present—a present in which she had spent years with the Malfoys, hiding from Voldemort as others sought the Horcruxes. A time in which she had recently vanquished that insane murderer, after allowing him to hit her with the Killing Curse. Narcissa had saved her once again, had lied for her, and allowed the wizarding world to triumph over the greatest Dark Lord England had seen since the time of Mordred (who had dared to claim the Lady Morgana was not only unfaithful to Merlin, but that she had given herself to a Muggle; no greater lie had ever been spoken).

“Shh, calm down, beauty.”

The voice spooked her, and Hailey reared back; her glorious ivory wings swung outward, catching the light breeze and restoring her balance.

“It’s just me, my beautiful one. All is well.”

Craning her long, elegant neck, Hailey turned her mossy green eyes on the pureblood wizard she had been huddled against. He was very tall and fit, with cocoa colored curls and aureate eyes. He was also very familiar, someone she had napped beside many times over the years. After all, Theodore Nott was one of the few people his own age that Draco Malfoy respected. Because of this, he was frequently invited to the manor. The first time Hailey had woken at his side, Theo had settled himself next to her while she napped in the sun. His slender fingers had smoothed down her silky feathers, and he had whispered to her of his broken family: his dead mother and his Death Eater father. 

She had opened her eyes to find him next to her several times those first two months of summer after the Triwizard Tournament. He would gently caress her and whisper plots of how he would escape from the fate his father planned for him, because Theodore Nott was no man’s servant, and especially not a branded one. He was exceedingly clever and determined, more so than any other man Hailey had ever met that was even remotely close to her age.

“You’re safe, little beauty. I would never harm you.”

She had heard the same words from his lips before, but they meant more to her now. Over the past few years, with his gentleness and care, Theo had won her love. Though he had thought her nothing but a beautiful peahen, he had shared countless secrets with her, had laid himself bare before her eyes and unconsciously offered his soul up for judgment.

Hailey did not find it wanting.

Sirius and the Malfoys were planning her a coming out gala. Hailey knew they were pre-screening suitors, that they were forming lists of who would be acceptable, who could be invited, who might be worthy of marriage dates, courtship, and so on. Hailey knew that she was supposed to remain hidden until then, because her guardians feared she would be kidnapped, or sundry other horrors would befall her. But this was Theo at her side, the only wizard she wanted, and with all he had unknowingly confessed to her, he surely deserved her best kept secret. Right?

No matter how she looked at it, her decision was disobedient and potentially dangerous. However, matters of the heart never were about order; love was chaotic, and it conspired inside her to make her reckless.

Hailey settled against the grass and rested her head in his lap, as she had done many times before, but never when the Malfoys could see her. As Theo’s fingers caressed her feathers with smooth strokes, she inhaled deeply and took a chance. A loud gasp of shock sounded above her as she reverted to her human form. Her white robes were up about her knees, her cheek was pressed against his thigh, her chest was against his leg, and his hand was buried in her tight curls.

Her eyes were clenched shut as she fisted the grass beneath her. If Narcissa saw her now, she would be in for the lecture of a lifetime. Narcissa would bristle with righteous indignation and snap, “Have you learned nothing I’ve taught you?” Lucius and Sirius would curse Theo without a second thought, for daring to be caught in such a compromising position with her. And that was disregarding Draco’s delusions that they would make the perfect match.

“Do you truly mean that?” whispered Hailey, who was still unable to open her eyes. What if he was disgusted or felt betrayed? What if he hated her? She couldn’t bear to see that on his face while he observed her.

“On my honor, Lady Hailey, I vow to never intentionally harm you.” Her eyes snapped open at the vow, and he traced her cheekbones as she rolled to look up at him, his thigh cradling the back of her head. “You’re safe with me, my beauty.” A glint of cleverness flashed through his eyes; she had seen it many times before. He also looked well pleased with himself. Then his hands burrowed into her hair, being careful not to pull it. “Stay.”

It was more of a command than a request, but Hailey didn’t mind. All she wanted was to stay at his side. And once her godfather or one of the Malfoys finally came looking for her—and found her head in Theo’s lap and his hands in her hair—she knew that order would be fulfilled.

“Did you know?” Hailey asked, suddenly wondering at all the secrets Theo had confessed to her. They were the truth, she could sense that much as a peahen, but why had he spoken to an animal in the first place?

Theo’s fingers didn’t still as they feathered through her hair. Then, voice rumbling possessively, he said, “Did you know you look unbearably beautiful beneath the full moon, your reflection shining off the Black Lake? All of your many colors morphed into a pristine picture of innocence. Magic painted you white as ivory, my beauty: the color of virtuous maidenhood. You’ve been mine since then.”


	14. Zacharias Smith/Female Harry Potter: The Lord Hufflepuff One

Fawkes flashed into the Great Hall in a burst of flames, drawing Hadrianna Potter’s attention away from Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger, who were making ridiculously sappy faces at each other. She was happy for them, truly, but seeing how happy they were only made her feel more alone. She didn’t have anyone, had never had anyone.

Voldemort had been much too obsessed, offering her a place at his side more than once. She wasn’t going to paint a target on anyone’s back, so she did her best not to notice any of the guys who wanted to date her.

The Sorting Hat was clutched in Fawkes’s talons, and Hadrianna flashed back to second year and the Chamber of Secrets. The last time she had seen the two together, she had been given the Sword of Gryffindor and fought a basilisk. The war was over now, so what possible reason could Fawkes have to be in possession of the Sorting Hat? The Sorting had been performed the night before, so it wasn’t needed for the ickle firsties. 

Fawkes glided across the hall on wings of fire, circled the Hufflepuff table, and then swooped down and dropped the hat on top of Zacharias Smith’s head. The brim of the hat moved, but no words echoed through the now silent Great Hall. Zach looked as stunned as she felt, and she wondered if her friend knew why the Sorting Hat had been brought to him. It didn’t look like it.

Then understanding swamped his face. All right, so maybe Zach did know why this was happening, after all. He reached up and pulled the hat off his head, revealing something curved and silvery-white lying in his pale blond hair.

“Is he really?” asked Hermione. She craned her neck to see better.

“Smith? It came to Smith? Ugh, just great. Now he’ll be even more of a pompous prat,” Ron groaned. His eyes were narrowed, but that didn’t hide the flash of jealousy in them. “Already rich, isn’t he? Now this too? Some people have all the luck,” he muttered.

“Is he really what?” Hadrianna asked as Zach reached up and grabbed the shiny thing off his head. It looked kind of like a bracelet of sorts. Why would the Sorting Hat give Zach a glittering bracelet?

Fawkes’s talons curled around the top of the hat, and they vanished.

“Lord Hufflepuff,” said Hermione as she bounced in her seat.

Hadrianna blinked and then spun around to face her friend. “What?” Yes, she knew that Zach was the last scion of the Hufflepuff Line—he had told her so himself in sixth year—but how could Hermione know that? It was a secret, or so she had thought. He had smugly informed her that Founder’s Heirs should stick together—excluding He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, of course.

“His nose is going to be even higher in the air than Malfoy’s,” Ron spat as he glared at Zach. “Oh, look at me, I’m a Founder’s Heir and Lord Hufflepuff. Bow to me, cretins!”

Hermione grinned at Ron. “I didn’t know you knew that word. You’re expanding your vocabulary. I’m so proud of you!”

Ron blushed and stuttered.

Offended, Hadrianna huffed and folded her arms. “I’ll have you know that I’m a Founder’s Heir, too. Gryffindor’s, remember? Are you saying it’s a bad thing?” She wanted to sigh and hang her head. Ron was a good friend, but when his jealousy got out of hand (quite frequently) he was a right prat. Besides, Zach didn’t deserve his disparagement. 

Zach was brilliant. He had never treated her like a princess on a pedestal just because she was the blasted Girl-Who-Lived. 

They had casually run into each other a great many times in fifth and sixth year, but always when Ron and Hermione weren’t around. She hadn’t given much thought to how important he had become to her until she was hunting Horcruxes and he wasn’t there to tease her, poke fun at the foibles of others, and give her little gifts. No matter what time of day it was, or even when they had last seen each other, he always had a gift for her: it could be as simple as a chocolate frog, or as elaborate as a self-correcting quill or a gift card to a wizarding clothing shop. He would hand those to her intently, a silent command to use them, and say, “Buy yourself something new.” Unlike others, he never snickered at her for wearing her cousin’s cast-offs. She loved that about him.

“No! I’m just saying—you’re not like that git!” Ron exclaimed, cheeks flushing.

“He’s not a git,” Hadrianna said mutinously. She had never spoken up for him before, because she hadn’t wanted Voldemort or the Slytherins to find out she was defending someone and attack him. Now, though, she wouldn’t allow that kind of talk, just as she wouldn’t let other people insult Ron and Hermione.

While Voldemort had still been alive and hunting her, she hadn’t been able to admit, even to herself, that she might possibly fancy Zach. Now, though . . .

“Whatever his personality traits, we can be sure of one thing,” Hermione interjected, before a fight could break out between Hadrianna and Ron. “He has been recognized as Lord Hufflepuff.”

“But how do you know that?” Hadrianna demanded. She carded a hand through her scarlet waist-length hair and then absently began braiding a section of it. The color was identical to her mother’s, and scarlet hair was a trait of the Prewett family; there was rampant speculation that Lily Evans was an illegitimate child of the late Lord Prewett, which would make Ron her cousin. Even without the official confirmation, she was glad she had never been attracted to any of the Weasleys. That would have been too bizarre for her. She wasn’t obsessed with blood purity like the Blacks had been and had no desire to marry one of her cousins.

Hermione huffed and tilted her head in the same way she normally did before asking, Don’t you read? However, she didn’t this time. “Well the Sorting Hat gave him the unicorn bracelet, of course!”

Knowing her next question would annoy Hermione didn’t stop her from asking it. She wanted answers. “The what?”

Hermione straightened her shoulders and leaned forward in a conspiring manner. “The unicorn bracelet is—”

“Absolutely none of your business, Granger,” Zach spat. “So I would greatly appreciate it if you would keep your mouth shut for once. Do you think you can manage to possess knowledge without sharing it with the whole world?”

A blush overtook Hermione’s face, and Ron stood, his fork pointed threateningly at Zach. “Don’t talk to her like that.”

Zach placed both his hands on the Gryffindor table, one on either side of Hadrianna, and leaned forward, his chest meeting the back of her head. “Then keep her in line. Your girlfriend has no right to discuss my private family affairs in public.”

Instead of blowing up, as Hadrianna had thought he would, Ron nodded ruefully and sat back down. “You’re right, of course. Apologize, Hermione.”

Hermione looked as flabbergasted as Hadrianna felt, but she dutifully said, “I’m sorry, Smith.”

“Accepted,” Zach replied. “Just see that you don’t do it again. You like learning, so why don’t you ask Weasley about wizarding etiquette. You have a lot to learn.”

Hadrianna felt like she should say something, but she didn’t know what. Honestly, she felt guilty for asking Hermione about the bracelet in the first place, and riling Zach’s temper. But she could understand where he was coming from; she hated it when people gossiped about her, and she had been grilling Hermione on something related to him behind his back. Hadrianna winced. She should have just waited and asked Zach her questions the next time they randomly bumped into each other.

“Step away from her.”

Hadrianna wondered if people would think she was more mental than normal if she bashed her head against the table. If she had known saving Malfoy from the bloody Fiendfyre would result in him practically stalking her, she might have left him to die. He always had this weird gleam in his eyes when he stared at her, as if he was imagining something. She really didn’t want to know what it was.

“I don’t think I will,” Zach said, still caging her with his body.

A quick glance at the high table showed the teachers smiling down at her with amusement. Great. So she obviously wasn’t going to get any help from them. Traitors.

“I’m warning you, Smith,” Malfoy snarled. “Get away from her.”

Zach snorted. “Why should I? It doesn’t seem like Hadrianna has a problem with my being so close to her.” As if to prove that point, he stepped even closer. The front of his body was now plastered all along her back, and her head was nestled against his chest.

The surrounding Gryffindors inhaled sharply and edged away from her. Hadrianna knew they were awaiting the tirade that followed anyone calling her by her full name. Even Ron and Hermione were eyeing her warily. It didn’t come, though. Zach had granted himself permission to use her full name in fifth year, haughtily informing her that her parents had given it to her and that a future lady, even one of Gryffindor’s line, should never be called ‘Harry’. She hadn’t known what he meant by the lady comment, but referring to her parents had let him emerge victorious from the argument.

“She’s just too polite to tell you to back the bloody hell away from her, Smith. I recommend you do so now. I’m not polite enough to keep myself from cursing you for touching her,” Malfoy spat.

“He’s not polite at all,” Ron muttered.

“Stay out of this, Weasley!” Zach and Draco said in unison, each sparing him a scathing glance for interrupting.

Hadrianna stared at the high table, unable to avert her eyes from the empty seat that Snape used to sit in every meal. She could see the taunting smirk on his face, and hear the drawl in his voice. She knew exactly what he would say if he were present to see this, “Really, Potter, inciting war between the houses—just like your father.” In private, though, he would pat her head and smile awkwardly while murmuring, “Men fighting over you already—just like your mother.”

“You seem to be operating under a misconception, Malfoy,” Zach said. He removed one hand from the table and wrapped his arm around Hadrianna, right under her chest. “Do you see this?” Zach’s other hand rose to her hair and burrowed into it, causing Parvati to stare at him with horror. He lifted a section, and she could feel that it was the part she had tied back with the ribbon he had given her after the final battle occurred. The ribbon was satin: black with gold stitching. She had assumed it was a playful joke about him being in Hufflepuff, but the rage on Malfoy’s face didn’t seem to agree.

“That’s not possible,” Malfoy said. His jaw was clenched, making his chin look pointier and his face more sharp.

“Oh, but it clearly is,” Zach said smugly. His fingers danced through the strands of her hair, distracting her from the conversation. She loved having her hair played with.

“You must have tricked her,” Malfoy spat. His right hand was white where it gripped the hawthorn wand she had returned to him. For a moment, she wondered if he might snap it in his rage.

“Hadrianna accepted the ribbon of her own free will.” Zach tugged her hair lightly. “Isn’t that right?”

She felt warm and safe. This was brilliant. Wait . . . hadn’t Zach just asked her something? “Hmm? Oh, yes. You gave it to me.”

“But did he tell you what it means?” Malfoy demanded, eyes like slits of silver.

Hadrianna cocked an eyebrow. That made no sense whatsoever; what was Malfoy playing at? “It’s a hair ribbon, Malfoy. It doesn’t mean anything.”

“You didn’t tell her?” Ron and Malfoy yelled in unison, before glaring viciously at each other.

Fed up with the whole argument that she could not follow in the least, Hadrianna slammed her hands on the table. Zach released her and stepped backward, which made Malfoy grin victoriously. “Look, I don’t know what’s going on”—Malfoy opened his mouth, but she ignored him—“and I don’t care. Yes, Zach gave me a ribbon. Yes, I accepted it. Yes, I’m wearing it. End of story.”

“You call him ‘Zach’?” Hermione asked, stunned, speaking for the first time since Ron had advised her to apologize.

Hadrianna huffed and put her head in her hands. Her reply was muffled. “It is his name, Hermione.” What was the big deal? She didn’t understand at all, and it was starting to piss her off.

A soft cry of pain made Hadrianna look up in time to see a small bolt of magic leave the bracelet around Zach’s wrist and zap Ginny, who had been staring at it in awe. Ginny was mortified, and Ron suddenly looked like he wanted to castrate Dean, but Hadrianna had no clue why. Why would—? Wait a minute. Hadn’t Hermione said it was a unicorn bracelet? Hadrianna grabbed Zach’s hand and stared at the bracelet; it spiraled around his arm like a circular staircase, covering roughly six inches of skin. It was silver-white, magical, and felt pure. Could it really be—“Unicorn horn?” she mumbled.

“Yes,” Zach agreed.

Then why would it . . . ? “But you’re not married!” Hadrianna exclaimed, staring at Ginny in disbelief. 

The only thing her Aunt Petunia and Snape had ever agreed on was that she was never, ever, ever to gift a man with her virginity before marriage. Snape had then happily volunteered (or she thought it was happily; his eyes had shone with a fervent light) to curse anyone who tried to convince her otherwise.

As Ginny was stuttering, she saw Hermione lean against Ron’s side, which put a greater distance between her and the bracelet. “You didn’t!” But Hermione’s red cheeks and Ron’s coughing told a different story. 

These were her friends. What if people thought she had . . . ?

Hadrianna almost gave herself whiplash as she snapped her head back to stare at Zach and Malfoy. “I never! I certainly haven’t—” She couldn’t bring herself to say the actual words. “I’ll prove it!” She dropped Zach’s hand and then closed her fingers around the bracelet itself. Her magic seeped out of her skin and hung around her like a foggy cloud; it was iridescent white—just like the bracelet.

As Malfoy gaped at her, Zach slid the bracelet off his wrist and extended it to her. Hadrianna was so accustomed to accepting gifts from him that she didn’t even think to refuse it. She slid it over her own hand and onto her wrist, admiring its beauty as it resized itself to closely hug her skin.

The awe on Malfoy’s face disappeared, lividness taking its place. “You choose him? Why? Why save me if you were going to choose him?”

Hadrianna’s forehead wrinkled. “What are you talking about?” The leer on his face was unnerving: a mix of desire and hatred and loss.

“You’ve just accepted my final courtship gift, Hadrianna,” Zach said. The grin on his face was beatific, as if he had just accomplished a Herculean task.

She blinked. “Courtship?” Now that she thought about it, the gifts had gotten more extravagant over time, and he had always looked quite pleased with himself when she took them from his hands. Was that why Snape had laughed at her when she had told him she had gotten the white lily from a friend?

Zach’s fingers caressed the bracelet on her arm possessively. Then he leaned over and whispered in her ear, “The plebeians call it the unicorn bracelet because it’s crafted from unicorn horn. In the family, we call it the Matchmaker. It was Helga Hufflepuff’s, and is used to find a wife for each Lord Hufflepuff—a witch who is pure in heart, mind, spirit, and body.”

Hadrianna tugged some hair forward to hide her face as the compliments and implications got to her. She could feel the heat in her cheeks, and didn’t want people thinking Zach was whispering inappropriate things in her ear.

“Even before the hat gave me the Matchmaker, I already knew you were it for me, Hadrianna,” Zach whispered.

“So we’re—what, engaged?”

The smile on his face was amused, but he looked more worried than anything. “No. Hadrianna, once a witch places the bracelet on her wrist, she’s Lady Hufflepuff.”

Hadrianna gulped and stared at the possessive grip Zach had on the bracelet. She waited for righteous indignation to flood through her body, for hatred to swell at the thought of being tricked into marriage. But all she could hear was Sirius’s voice telling story after story of how her father had ruthlessly and persistently sought her mother. All she could see was Snape glaring at Zach and ordering him to detention for the silliest of reasons, and Zach not complaining once. All she could feel was the love she had buried so deep that Voldemort would never glimpse it.

“Do you love me?” she breathed. His actions spoke of his love, but she needed the words. No man had ever said them to her before and meant them—at least, not in a romantic way.

“With the love of a Hufflepuff—eternally loyal,” said Zach solemnly. 

She glanced down at her lap and then grinned. Let him suffer for a few moments for plotting against her. He must have learned of her father’s courtship of her mother and sought to avoid the drama by tricking her into it. Instead of being irate, she was impressed; it proved how dedicated and hardworking he was. She had nothing to worry about; Zach was the ultimate Hufflepuff. “Why did Ron and Malfoy freak out about the ribbon? What does it mean?”

“Black and gold are my family colors. By wearing it you declare that you are in an exclusive courtship with me and other wizards are to leave you alone until you decide to marry me or break off the courtship,” he confessed.

“Which I, of course, had no idea how to do, seeing as I didn’t even realize you were courting me.” Hadrianna cocked an eyebrow, enjoying how nervous he got as she refused to react to his pronouncement that she had inadvertently agreed to be his wife.

“I love you, Hadrianna,” Zach said. He leaned forward and stared directly into her eyes. “I might not be a Potter, but I was never going to give up the woman I love to anyone else. I learned from your father. He would be proud of me. I won the witch of my dreams.”

A gentle smile graced her face. “Yes, you did.” 

And then she kissed him in front of their silent audience, sighing as he pulled her into a tight embrace. His hands tangled in her hair and tilted her head. As he claimed her mouth, hidden behind the scarlet curtain of her hair, she wondered if her mother had felt this precious and loved while finally surrendering to her father.


	15. Cedric Diggory/Female Harry Potter: The Triwizard Maze One

Lady Harry Potter leaned against Fred Weasley as she watched the champions prepare to enter the maze. Her gaze settled, as it had been wont to do as of late, on Mister Cedric Diggory. 

“Oh ho!” George Weasley exclaimed from her other side. “Debating slumming, little lion?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” muttered Harry.

“I’m talking about you ogling our resident, famous Puff. So you like the tall, strong, and Quidditch type, do you?” teased George. He waggled his eyebrows.

“I didn’t think your hormones had kicked in yet,” Fred added. He grinned at her. “But if you like the tall and Quidditch type, and you don’t mind slumming with lesser purebloods—”

“Then Fred and I would like you to know that we don’t object to being slummy—slummish?—from the slums,” George finished. He leaned forward until his blue eyes blocked her line of sight.

Harry snorted and bit her lip, trying not to laugh in his face. She knew it was a joke, but she could see the slightest bit of truth in his eyes. Either of them would be honored by her interest, but that was never going to happen. Marauders didn’t date each other, even if they weren’t all the same gender this generation. Her dad, Sirius, and Remus would hassle her until she died if she allowed either of the Weasley twins to court her. Besides, they had spent too much time together; they might as well be her brothers.

“My hormones are none of your business,” she said. It was impossible to imagine life without Fred and George now; she had stumbled into them in Diagon Alley—they hid her after she hexed Pansy Parkinson’s hair bright pink with her dad’s wand—and had been partners in crime and humor ever since.

“Your girl hormones are. We need to know when to hide.”

“And who to beat up,” Fred said with a wicked smile.

“Your boy hormones, on the other han—”

Harry jabbed her wand into George’s side and glared. “Do you really want to finish that sentence?” He shook his head. “Good,” she mumbled. Harry was tired of the constant wisecracks she had been forced to endure since she was a child. It was common knowledge that in the Potter family, the firstborn child was always a male. Always. As far back as their genealogy went—over a thousand years—this was the case. So when her father, Lord James Potter, found out that his wife, Lady Lily Potter, was expecting, he chose a proper name for his firstborn son and heir. Magic registered his decision . . . and so her name was Harry James Potter. 

The Marauders (generation one) had thought it was hilarious—a prank pulled over their eyes by fate. Her mother was still not amused almost fifteen years later. However, her ire over the topic had lessened when Harry’s younger sister was born, and Lily named her Primrose Dorea Potter.

Though Harry had never told anyone, because she didn’t want to suffer even more teasing, she actually liked her name. All the pureblood girls she knew had elegant names: flowers, stars, Greek, or Roman. But not her. If someone were to compare the young ladies of their acquaintanceship, she would definitely be unique. And not just because she had a male’s name.

“So, Diggory, huh?” asked Fred.

Harry shrugged her shoulders and didn’t answer. Something about the silent Hufflepuff captivated her, and it wasn’t solely because he had once caught the Snitch before she did. Perhaps it was the way he acted—with honor and honesty—or mayhap it was the devotion he showed in his friendships. She couldn’t put her finger on why, exactly, her gaze flitted to Cedric multiple times whenever he was in her vicinity.

“Isn’t he courting Chang?” George inquired softly.

“Yes,” she replied. Back in December, she had spent weeks working up the courage to ask him to the Yule Ball, even though it simply wasn’t done. Pureblood witches did not ask wizards to galas, events, or anything; they were to wait for a wizard to invite them. The day she finally garnered her mettle was the same day she overheard Cho Chang squealing in delight, at the top of her lungs, as she babbled to Marietta Edgecombe about Cedric’s invitation to escort her to the ball.

Her heart had lurched in her chest, and she had ended up attending with some Ravenclaw boy whose name she couldn’t even remember now. Except for when she and the twins had spiked the punch with Firewhisky and set Trelawney’s hair on fire (an illusion, not real flames), the night was an utter disappointment. She had possessed no desire to dance, and only took a turn around the Great Hall with Fred and George because they gave her no choice.

“I thought so. She was his hostage in February,” Fred said. He patted Harry’s shoulder sympathetically.

Harry stared at Cedric as a hologram of him floated into the air. It was a screen of sorts, so the viewers in the stands could keep track of his progress as he traversed the maze and fought the terrors within. His hair was a deep chestnut, like the bark on her favorite tree on the manor grounds, and his eyes were a bright gray, almost like Sirius’s, but not quite. Still, they were familiar, comforting. Maybe his eyes preoccupied her? She was so used to seeing love and care and protection beam out at her from eyes nearly identical to his.

“Don’t see why he’d want Chang if he could have you,” George stated. The smile on his face was genuine, and just one of the reasons he was one of her best friends. Weasleys made great friends. Fred and George, at least. She didn’t really know the others too well, even though Ginny was a girl and Ron was in her year. Ron tended to get all tongue-tied around her, and that was just awkward and embarrassing. She preferred to avoid such situations whenever possible.

“You’re a better Seeker, if it’s the Quidditch angle he likes,” Fred stated with a smirk. Then again, he had a right to be smug; Gryffindor hadn’t lost the Quidditch Cup since Harry became their Seeker back in first year. It had been close last year, though, with that loss to Hufflepuff. Luckily, Slytherin had completely humiliated them, and Gryffindor ended up with the Cup once again.

“If it’s the pureblood angle, your family’s much more prestigious than hers,” George said with a snooty tone, nose in the air.

“Oh, shut it,” Harry chided him as she slapped him on the arm. She hated the drama that came along with her title, heritage, and defeating of Voldemort as an infant. She especially disliked how quick other pureblood witches were to point out any deficiencies in her education or actions. She spent hours with the Weasley twins, who were from a lesser family. She had been alone with them. She casually touched them and others. Had she no shame?

Harry had given up on being the perfect pureblood maiden at seven, when she had the unfortunate opportunity to meet Pansy Parkinson. When she had finally escaped the ‘play date’, she went home and chopped her hair off with her mother’s scissors. Her mother had been horrified, her father had laughed and said she looked even more like a ‘Harry’ now, and Sirius had said she was as wild and mischievous as a pixie or imp, so she might as well look like one.

She reached up and fingered the short strands of her hair; it might not be long, but it was smooth as silk and black as the night sky. And if he likes her physical appearance, I don’t compare, Harry thought. Chang was taller, had long, black hair, an olive complexion, and plenty of curves to catch a wizard’s eye. Harry was about five foot six, with no curves to speak of, though her mother insisted she had been the same until she was almost sixteen. And only a blind person would think Lady Lily Potter was flat or lacked an hourglass figure.

“Hey now, get those thoughts out of your head,” Fred growled.

Harry blinked. “I don’t know—”

“We’re not stupid, little lion,” George said. “You’ve got insecurity written all over your face.” He scowled up at the holographic Cedric, who was fighting a Blast-Ended Skrewt. “You’re beautiful. Don’t let anyone make you think otherwise.”

“If Diggory’s too dumb to notice, that’s his problem. He obviously doesn’t deserve you,” Fred said before ruffling her hair.

Harry sighed and leaned further against Fred, while George scooted closer. They were blocking her in again, or, more like, keeping others out and away from her. She knew that Sirius and her father had offered them apprenticeship positions at Marauders’ Mischief—the most popular joke shop in the wizarding world. If one of the stipulations was to keep her safe, she didn’t need to know, nor would she care. They had been her partners in mayhem long before they accepted the offer.

She imagined the look that would appear on her father’s face if he ever found out that someone liked any other girl over her. He would check them for curses, no doubt. The image made her snort, then snigger, as she buried her head against Fred’s chest.

“There, now. That’s better!” exclaimed George with a smug smile. “The little lion should always be happy.”

Harry groaned and smacked his arm. “Stop calling me ‘little lion’!” Her Animagus form wasn’t that small. Just because she was barely an adolescent lioness didn’t mean she was little! There were loads of Animagus forms smaller than hers, including both of theirs! One day she would be fully grown, and then they would have to change it . . . though she doubted they would. They were ever fond of tweaking her tail.

“Is that an Acromantula?” Fred asked, stunned.

Glancing up, Harry saw that Cedric was, indeed, fighting an Acromantula. Its teeth snapped shut, barely missing his left leg as he leapt out of the way. Vines twined up from the ground and knotted around his right ankle, yanking him to the ground. Dirt marred his pale skin, and his eyes were hard and pained. She didn’t need sound effects to know how much that must have hurt. A streak of light poured from Cedric’s wand and sliced open the bottom of the Acromantula—its innards and blood erupting outward and splattering all over him.

The vines were quickly dealt with after that, but he was limping, so it was either sprained or broken. If asked to place a bet, she would guess broken, because of how heavily he was favoring it, and the spell he used to bandage it.

“All right, so he might have some redeeming qualities,” George admitted grudgingly, though he looked impressed by the outcome of the battle.

“Doesn’t mean he’s not an idiot,” Fred said.

“And Cedric Diggory is Triwizard Champion,” Harry said just as the holographic Cedric grabbed the cup in the center of the maze and disappeared. He landed on the wide stage to massive amounts of applause and a standing ovation from the students present.

“Want to head out before the masses?” asked Fred as he glanced down at her.

Harry nodded. “Yes, let’s go.” She didn’t really see much point in sticking around. Surely, Chang would rush into his arms and kiss him (if she hadn’t already), and Harry had no desire to see that happen. Unrequited feelings were a part of life. Seeing the person you fancied getting snogged by someone you didn’t particularly like was just asking for more emotional baggage. She had enough, thank you very much.

“You know, Charlie’s still single,” Fred said with a smirk. “If you’re interested in slumming with a pureblood, Quidditch playing, fit, honest, hard-working, loving type of bloke. And he’d know better than to break your heart.”

Snorting, Harry rolled her eyes. “If Charlie’s single, I’ll marry Malfoy.” A loud thump sounded behind them, and Harry glanced over her shoulder to see Heir Draco Malfoy, face as red as raspberries, lying unconscious on the ground. “Did he just faint?”

“Tell me someone caught that on camera!” Fred crowed.

“He was within three feet of Harry. I’m sure Creevey caught it; we can harass him for copies later.” George replied, before absently changing Draco’s hair Weasley red. “There. It matches his face.” They all sniggered.

Harry and the twins had just rounded the stage when the ceremony ended and Cedric came down the back stairs. Chang was waiting nearby, next to a tree, but she took one look at his robes, which were covered with Acromantula guts, and sprinted in the opposite direction when he took a step toward her.

“Pathetic,” Fred whispered, voice full of scorn.

“She can’t handle the sight of spider innards? Weak,” George agreed. But then, as sons of Molly Weasley, and being best friends with Harry—whose mother was Lily Potter—they despised weak-willed women. Real women were fiery and didn’t back down from anything.

Cedric stood there, shell-shocked, and Harry could understand his disbelief. Even though he was from a lesser house, he had been raised with the same laws, traditions, and customs as the Ancient Houses. When a man returned from war, victorious, with the blood of his enemies upon him, it was his fiancée’s, wife’s, mistress’s, or eldest daughter’s honor and duty to clean it away. He was the protector; she was the nurturer.

Harry pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and pointed her wand at it. “Aguamenti.” A stream of water came out of the holly wand and soaked the linen.

“Harry?” George inquired, mouth twisted in a way that implied he didn’t like what he thought she was going to do. It was a rare sight on his face.

“He just won the Triwizard Tournament. He doesn’t deserve this,” she replied.

“You sure?” asked Fred.

Nodding, Harry walked away from them and approached Cedric. Without saying a word, she lifted the wet handkerchief and began wiping the drying fluid off his face. It smelled unpleasant and was tacky. But she didn’t stop. He had slain an Acromantula, for Merlin’s sake! If Chang didn’t have the courage to honor that, Harry certainly did, regardless of any implications it might create.

His gaze locked on her after the first stroke of the damp cloth against his skin. The shock in his eyes increased, becoming greater than it had been when he had first seen Chang run away from him. “Lady Harry?”

It had gotten behind his ear? Gross. She only hoped it hadn’t gotten in his ear. She didn’t know what effect Acromantula guts might have on hearing. “Hmmm?”

Cedric peered over her shoulder and tightened his grip on his wand, as if he expected to be assaulted at any moment. Post Tournament jitters? “Are you sure it’s okay for you to be over here. Doing this?” he asked. “Not that I’m not grateful or anything, I just—”

Harry stopped washing his jaw to asked, befuddled, “Why wouldn’t it be?” Unless this area was limited to contestants, or some such, she didn’t see a problem.

“If I were the Misters Weasley, I wouldn’t like to witness my fiancée cleaning another wizard after battle,” said Cedric. His gray eyes sparked with jealousy as the words tumbled from his tongue.

“What?” Harry’s brow furrowed as she tried to make sense of his words. Was he suggesting what she thought he was suggesting? “You think I’m engaged to Fred and George?”

Cedric clenched his jaw and nodded sharply. “There’s no need to worry, Lady Harry. I have no intention of acting dishonorably, or assuming any romantic notions for my person on your part. I’m well aware that you are otherwise engaged. I’m surprised they would allow you to do this, but thank you for your generosity all the same.” He folded his hands behind his back, as if to prove that he was harmless and wouldn’t touch her without permission.

“Engaged to Fred and George?” she repeated numbly. Why in the world would he think such a thing? Other than the fact that the three of them disregarded most rules of propriety when it came to personal space, casual touching, and names.

Flushing, he cast his gaze to the ground. “I don’t usually listen to gossip, Lady Harry. And I certainly never repeat it,” he added instantly as his gaze met hers, begging her to believe him. “But it’s common knowledge around Hogwarts that you and the Misters Weasley entered into an engagement in your second year, the early contract being allowed as they are to be apprenticed to your father.”

What? “We’re not,” Harry breathed. 

“Not what?” he asked, voice low and face shuttered.

“We’re not engaged,” Harry said. Her hands shook as she contemplated what the future might hold if his interest in Chang was only a result of her own supposed betrothal. “They are going to be apprenticed to my dad, but we’re not . . . we’re just friends,” she finished lamely, cheeks pink.

Cedric’s gaze bore into her; his gray eyes scorched like Sirius’s did when his wife—Sephora—was in the room. “Then,” he said, voice raspy, “if my lady has no objections, I would like to retract my earlier statement.”

“Oh?” Harry felt her heart flutter. “Which one?”

Cedric grasped the hand that held the wet handkerchief and pressed it to his cheek. “I would like to assume a great many romantic notions on your part.”

Harry ducked her head, unable to believe the Marauder luck had struck again, and grinned bashfully. She caressed his face with the linen and said, “My lord is free to assume whatever he wants.

“Your lord?” Cedric shivered. “Even if I have to take your family name and forsake my own, I like the sound of that.”

So did she.


	16. Salazar Slytherin/Female Harry Potter: The Dark Lady and Lord One

The Elder Wand arced through the air after ripping itself from Voldemort’s hand. It flew gracefully, elegantly, as if it were a trained dancer and not the most sought after weapon in the wizarding world. Its light color bespoke of innocence and purity, but she knew it was anything but innocent; it had slain countless lives. Regardless of its outer color, its core was thestral hair—only to be used by those who had mastered death. It was mesmerizing, begging for her attention, and Lady Harelda Potter was unable to deny its draw.

Instinctively, she reached out to catch the wand.

No!

The scream rang through her body, sending her nerves skittering with fear worse than when she had first encountered a dementor. Trembling as if she had the palsy, Harelda started to lower her hand.

Catch it, a voice hissed. It was dark, manic, and filled with wicked pleasure. It’s yours now. You’re mine now. Macabre cackling resounded through her head.

Don’t touch it, the first voice whispered, steady and soothing. You’re mine. You’ll always be mine. I chose you.

Harelda hunched on the floor, ignoring everyone around her, eyes still locked on the Deathstick as it came closer and closer. She wanted it. She had earned it. And if she were the Mistress of Death, couldn’t she bring people back from the dead? The Resurrection Stone alone couldn’t . . . but maybe if she used all three together, maybe if she combined their powers? She could have Sirius back. Her parents could be alive. Teddy could have his parents again. George’s magic would stop wailing so loudly she feared she would faint from the agonized cries.

Oh, Magic, how naïve you are. If you hadn’t intended to lose one of your chosen, you shouldn’t have let her play with the Hallows. Once she had two, you should have known the third would become hers. Once she became the Mistress of Death, you must have felt it. Did you really believe that you could keep her, then? The laugh that followed was chiding, like a parent scolding a rebellious child.

What was going on? She recognized the sound of Magic’s voice, but this other—stranger, unknown—was both unsettling and empowering. Harelda shivered.

Not this one, Chaos. You can’t have her. She’s too light, too pure. She’s my chosen savior, and deserves peace after all she’s done for me.

Each word from ‘Chaos’, as Magic called the unknown voice, was tinged with smug victory and faint mocking. It doesn’t matter what you made her for, Magic. If you wanted to keep her, you should have protected her from my influence. A part of my last child’s soul dwelled inside her until earlier today. She’s had basilisk venom in her veins. She’s cast Unforgivables. I don’t care what safe guards you put into place; they have failed. She killed the true Dark Lord—one chosen by me, not named thusly by those silly wizards of yours. And, as such, she is required to assume his role.

Wait, what? Harelda blinked rapidly, trying to understand what was happening. Magic was arguing with the entity that turned wizards into Dark Lords? And because she had vanquished Voldemort, she was required to take his place? “No,” she whispered. “I won’t.” Voldemort was a murderer! He was a prejudiced bigot that loved mayhem, violence, torture, and death. She would never become like him.

It amuses me, child, that you think you have a choice, Chaos said.

Please, Magic begged, don’t take her. Not her.

Magic, said Chaos, sharper than Gryffindor’s sword, you failed to protect her. That’s your fault, not mine. Your redhead Mudblood was a better mother to her than you’ve been. At least the Mudblood saved her for a while longer; you can’t.

“My mother was not a Mudblood!” yelled Harelda. The crowd of people that had been surging toward her halted, stunned at the exclamation. But Chaos’ taunts served their purpose; she was distracted just long enough for the Elder Wand to finish its arc and fall onto her palm. 

No! Magic wailed its denial. She’s to be gifted! You can’t take her.

Oh, but I can, purred Chaos. There’s no need to worry. I’ll make sure she’s gifted. In fact, I know just the wizard I’ll give her to already. Don’t worry, Magic; he’s a pureblood and follows some of the Ancient Ways. Of course, they weren’t particularly ancient in his time. Chaos sniggered gleefully. His wife the first time around was weak-willed and too easily killed. He didn’t subjugate nearly as many people as he could have. But with your little savior at his side, Dark as a witch can be, his true magnificence—and hers—will finally be illuminated.

You wouldn’t . . . Magic breathed, though it was patently clear that Chaos would.

Harelda’s fingers curled around the Elder Wand reflexively. A piece of wood splintered off and bit into her skin; blood spilled from her palm, dying each of the engraved elderberries rubicund. Her breath caught in her throat as her magic rippled down the wand, teasing her blood along in its wake, until all the elderberries were plump, having fed of her life’s blood.

Chaos’ voice was raspy and hoarse, as if he had laughed his throat raw. Take a look around, Magic, because all of this is about to change. You wanted peace more than anything, and were willing to risk one of your chosen daughters to get it. Instead, he purred, you’ll be given death, torture, and war.

Wasn’t war bad? No, it couldn’t be, could it? She had fought in one, hadn’t she? Stretching, Harelda rose to her feet and stared imperiously around the room. It was a mess—fallen walls, screams of pain, wounds and gore. She loved it. Everyone was staring at her with either horror, awe, love, or respect. All were acceptable forms of devotion, as far as she was concerned. Her foe was fallen, and she remained.

Harelda thrust the hand holding her beloved wand into the air and stated, “I emerge victorious! He is fallen!” Cheers echoed off the stone walls, mashing together into an unintelligible shout of joy. Yes, they should be pleased. They were only alive, after all, because of her sufferance for their weaknesses and foibles. She was much too forgiving, much too kind, and needed to remember not to let others take advantage of her in the future.

Why had she ever shared her knowledge? Why had she taught others to fight, when they might rise up against her rule and use those skills against her? It was an error she must never repeat. Only her future offspring were trustworthy enough to learn from her, because they would never be able to betray her.

There was a slight niggling in the back of her mind, as if she had forgotten something vitally important. She brushed it aside. She forgot nothing. Besides, other than her beloved wand, cloak, and stone, nothing in this world had any worth. 

Come, dear one, your lord has waited much too long for you. Had the special voice that spoke to her always been so deep and rich? Hadn’t it once been light and airy? The more she thought about it, the more certain she became that it had always been thick and low. And you’ve been waiting far too long to be united with him.

Truth. There was no disputing that. She was of age to find a lord and bond. It was time to join fully and meld magic—Magic? No, Harelda, Magic isn’t sentient; what a foolish idea—and bear progeny for her lord. Their children would be powerful, cunning, deft, and well protected. Death would come to all who sought to damage anyone linked to her through any type of bond. Mercy was for the pathetic, for those too stupid to understand that a deceased enemy was one who could never assault you again.

A swirling, black vortex arose before her. Shadowy tendrils wisped toward her, beckoning her closer. This will take you to him, said Chaos.

Harelda glanced around at her adoring minions one last time, annoyed at their cries of exclamation and shouts for her to back away from the strange portal. It wasn’t strange to her, and the destination was greatly sought after: a lord of her own. A true lord. A Dark Lord. No other would be worthy of her: a Dark Lady, the Mistress of Death.

One step was all it took, and then it felt like she was Apparating through the night sky: cold and dark, with random bursts of light. The magic of the vortex tugged at her, twisting and shaping, altering she knew not what. It was impossible to focus her magic when it was being used by Chaos to send her somewhere special, somewhere safe: her new home.

Then she arrived.

Harelda inhaled a quick breath as she surveyed her surroundings. She was in a sitting room of some sort, which seemed like the type to be just off a bedchamber. It was expensive, but restrained—not gaudy or overdone. She turned to face a fireplace that was taller than she was, a small blaze casting heat into the room. Harelda curled her toes in pure silk, and then glanced down to see that it wasn’t a plush rug. Somehow, someway, her hair had grown from chin-length until it literally hung all the way down her back and pooled on the floor at her feet. It was lustrous, shining like a comet-filled sky in the firelight.

She clenched the Elder Wand in her fist and gazed up at the massive mirror that hung over the mantle. Her reflection was both familiar and utterly foreign. Her eyes were no longer emerald, mimicking her mother’s. As the Mistress of Death, they were the color of the Killing Curse—vicious, sickly green. The Resurrection Stone lay against the swell of her breasts, suspended in a silver basilisk’s mouth, fangs keeping it in place. The basilisk’s body continued around her neck, slithering occasionally and as smooth as real snake scales. And the cloak, well, it had been fashioned into some type of Medieval gown. At the moment, she wasn’t invisible; it appeared as if she were wearing liquid silver. 

If Harelda hadn’t been facing the mirror, she probably wouldn’t have noticed the door opening. As it was, it didn’t make a sound. However, she wouldn’t have been able to miss the roil of cruel, possessive, protective magic that stormed into the room and crashed into her, pulling her under like riptide. It was as greedy, needy, and selfish as its owner’s eyes, which were as gray as her gown.

“Have you finally found her, Chaos?” he asked, voice a series of hisses. Parseltongue, then. She had eventually learned to distinguish the difference. “Is she to be my lady?” There was an almost desperate edge to his sibilant voice, as if loneliness was about to swallow him whole.

Harelda perused his fit form, cocked an eyebrow, and then asked, “Are you the lord Chaos said was mine?” She grinned at him. “Because if not . . .” Harelda released her hold on her magic, and it lashed out like a whip crafted from lava—burning, scarring, agonizing. “I’ll have to torture and kill you for gazing at me in such a manner.”

“Lord Salazar Slytherin, I gift you with Lady Harelda Peverell, the Mistress of Death,” said Chaos, speaking aloud for the first time. “As her name suggests, she is, indeed, mighty in battle. Be well pleased with her, Salazar.” It was an order, nothing less.

Salazar smirked and strode forward, not stopping when he neared her. He set his hands on her hips and yanked her forward. “For Chaos to have chosen you as my lady, you must be special,” Salazar said.

Harelda peered at him through her eyelashes and hissed, “If you dishonor me, I’ll end your line.” The Deathstick was aimed directly at his manhood.

Instead of the threat she expected in return, Salazar forced her even closer, his grip tight, and whispered, “You would never dare to dishonor me. I’m the most powerful—magically, politically, and financially—wizard in the world. You have nowhere else to go but down.” His magic slashed at hers, gouging wounds toward her core. “You don’t want to mingle with the filth, do you?” taunted Salazar.

Snarling, Harelda cut into him with her magic, slicing through the barriers he had erected over the years. Nothing, not even the blackest of magics, could keep her out. She fought the urge to whimper as he carved out half of her magic and ripped it from her body; the flinch he gave when she did the same was a reward she treasured. 

“What I have wounded, now let me heal,” said Salazar ritualistically. He took control of the magic she had torn from him and eased it into her body, forming threads to sew shut the injuries he had caused during his assault. The rest he poured into her core, filling the hole he had created.

“What I have wounded, now let me heal,” Harelda repeated, breathing a sigh of relief as his magic mended her core. She was as gentle and tender as she possibly could be while fixing him. 

This wasn’t the ceremony she had imagined participating in as a child, but she couldn’t remember of what she had dreamt. Because twining magic carefully, and freely sharing magic without pain was nonsensical, wasn’t it? It was a fantasy, or perhaps happened in bondings between filth, the lower classes that wouldn’t commit everything they were to their lord or lady. A true bonding involved intense torment, because each individual needed to always remember how deeply their words and actions could cut each other—so that they would never seek to cause each other pain. 

Now, if he ever hurt her, he would suffer as she did, and the same in return.

Distantly, as if it were the dying remnants of an echo, Harelda thought she heard a familiar woman’s voice weeping as if everyone she loved had just been slaughtered before her eyes.

But Harelda couldn’t focus on that, because Salazar—her lord—was kissing her most insistently. It seemed he was anxious for an heir, which she would never dream of denying him. As he swept her into his arms and carried her toward what she assumed was their bedchamber, she heard a disturbing, yet oddly comforting noise.

Chaos was chuckling and singing, as if to someone other than her or Salazar. Something wicked this way comes.


	17. Lucius Malfoy/Lily Evans: The Lying About Being Engaged One

“Oh, please. Who would want to bond with Evans?” Narcissa Black snorted. “She’s a Mudblood Gryffindor. She’ll be lucky if some old pureblood decides to make her his mistress. I’m sure she knows that, at least. I’ll bet she’s too dumb to be careful, too. She’ll have to let him kill her illegitimate children.” Narcissa snickered with Ursula Urquhart.

Lilith Evans felt her throat swell shut. She hadn’t meant to eavesdrop, but, Merlin, she was so glad she had. What an idiot she’d been to assume Narcissa’s offer of friendship once Lilith became a New Blood was actually sincere!

Everything was supposed to be different now! She was meant to be accepted in society as a lady.

If Potter smiled that lecherous smile at her once more, she was going to castrate him and accept the consequences. Azkaban would be better than Hogwarts right now—anything to get a holiday from Potter and his obsession with her.

“Maybe I’ll let slip in a conversation that Evans got drunk and slept with Potter.”

“Did she really?” Ursula asked.

“Of course, not. Evans isn’t that stupid.” Narcissa huffed and then gloated, “Lucius will never look at her again!” 

That’s what this was all about? Lucius Malfoy? Narcissa intended to start rumors to keep Lucius Malfoy from looking at her? Weren’t Severus Snape and Narcissa courting, still? So why should Narcissa care if Lucius liked Lilith?

If Narcissa was using Severus to make Lucius jealous. . . . 

“Oh, you’ll pay for that,” Lilith hissed. She wiped the tears from her lashes and straightened her shoulders, head upright and proud. Narcissa could be jealous all she wanted, and it wasn’t going to change a thing; if Lucius was the slightest bit interested in Lilith, she’d steal him before Narcissa ever had a chance.

As Lilith took a deep breath and smoothed her styled hair, she admitted to herself that she wouldn’t mind having Lucius as her own, even if Narcissa weren’t involved. The Malfoy Heir had captivated her since they had met in Knockturn Alley. However, she had never imagined that he might be interested in her: a Mudblood turned New Blood. If she hadn’t overheard Narcissa just now, she would’ve always assumed that he tolerated her presence, at best. Now she had hope, small though it may be.

Lucius had proven himself to be a Slytherin through and through. He would enjoy revenge, cunning, and guile. She knew just how to get him, and how to get Narcissa to shut her trap.

Lilith entered the Great Hall, not too far behind Narcissa and Ursula. She walked to the Slytherin table, to the astonishment of the occupants of the room, and stopped at the middle of the table, the side with its back to the wall—allowing utmost protection—where Lucius held court as Head Boy.

“What do you want, Evans?” Narcissa asked, face twisted in disgust, as if she smelled something putrid.

Lucius held up his hand to silence her, and then turned his head, focusing on Lilith and nothing else. “Yes?” he asked, one eyebrow cocked in query.

Lilith grinned at Lucius and lifted her robes just long enough to show him her ankles, before sinking into a very deep curtsey. “I apologize for the late acceptance, Lucius. I had some matters of estate to attend to, as I’m sure you understand.” It was a small estate to be sure, but her entitlement from her sponsorship family, the Princes, deserved ever bit of care and attention.

Narcissa leapt to her feet, body quivering, face red. “How dare you address him by his given—”

“Hush up, Narcissa!” Regulus Black snapped as he leaned warily away from Lucius.

“Indeed, I do,” Lucius replied as he met her upturned gaze.

“If you can forgive the unbearable rudeness of the lateness of my reply, I would be honored to spend the Yule break at Malfoy Manor, becoming acquainted with my future mother-in-law and father-in-law,” Lilith said. She successfully kept the blush off her cheeks as she spewed one lie after another. Please let Narcissa have been right, she thought. Please let him have been casting eyes at me.

Lucius’s eyes softened as a smirk split his face. He offered her his hand, and lifted her out of her curtsey. “Mother and Father will be pleased to hear that, darling. They’ve been dying to get to know you better. Mother is most insistent on taking you to her milliner and dressmaker in Paris. She’s adamant that your trousseau outshine every other ordered this century.”

Narcissa fainted, and everyone was so riveted on watching Lucius and Lilith that no one even attempted to catch her.

Even though it was a lie, it was a sweet one. How wonderful would it be if his parents really did welcome her into the Malfoy family and love her, as her own had been unable to do after discovering she was a witch? 

Lilith flushed and averted her eyes. “She doesn’t have to do that for me.”

“Yes, she does. My future bride deserves top quality,” Lucius said as he stroked her cheek. “Malfoys always deserve top quality. Why do you think I fell in love with you, Lilith?” The words were spoken with painful sincerity.

“Because you didn’t know any better?” Lilith teased as she stepped closer to him at his urging.

Lucius snapped his fingers and Rodolphus Lestrange grumbled and slid down the bench, leaving an open space next to Lucius. Lilith sat and Lucius wrapped an arm around her waist. “Oh, I can assure you that I knew precisely what I was doing when I set out to capture you, darling.”

“You did, did you?”

“Yes, I did.” His tone brooked no argument. Lucius kissed her forehead, and then shifted until Lilith took the hint and laid her head on his shoulder. “Eat, darling. And after lunch I’ll write my parents and tell them you’ve accepted after all.”

“As you wish, Lucius.” Lilith picked up a peach and took a bite, before setting it on his plate. She wasn’t all that hungry; she was never hungry when she was nervous.

Once conversation picked up in the Great Hall, speculation and babble drowning out almost all else, Lucius leaned down and spoke in her ear. “Tell me you meant that.” His voice was harsh and cruel, as if he would greatly like to torture someone if she backed out of their sudden engagement.

Despite the dark tone, she could hear the pain beneath it all. How long had he been interested, while she wasn’t paying attention? She couldn’t remember him giving any indication of interest, but then, she hadn’t looked at him often, in fear that she would reveal where her interests lay. While she was still a Mudblood, she was sure that he would never consider her anyway. And he hadn’t seemingly changed his attentions since her official recognition as a New Blood.

“With all my heart, my lord,” Lilith whispered.

Lucius’s grip became almost excruciatingly tight as he hugged her even closer. “Mine.” 

Lilith rolled her eyes and rested her head against his shoulder. She remembered all the nights she had told the girls in the dorm that a possessive man would drive her mental. Some of the purebloods took it so far that they decided who their wives were allowed to converse with, what topics were appropriate, and so on. After years of being stalked by Potter, she hadn’t wanted to surrender control to anyone. 

“I belong to myself,” she whispered. She didn’t want to start an argument where others could hear it, but Lilith couldn’t be passive and allow him to think she would accept the strictest pureblood lifestyle. She didn’t mind most of the customs, but she wasn’t going to be chattel. She deserved better than that.

She could hear the sound of his teeth grinding before he replied. “I know.” Lilith could tell how much it had hurt for him to speak those two words. His lips brushed against her hair as he said, “But you’ll bond with me.”

Lilith nodded.

“You’ll take my name.”

Grinning, Lilith nodded again.

“You’ll live in my family manor, in our chambers.”

“Yes,” she whispered. The image he was painting in her mind inspired a feeling of peace and safety. Lilith could only imagine that being in her husband’s home would be loving and soothing.

Lucius twined his fingers with hers beneath the table. “You’ll let me love you, and create a family with you.”

Heat singed her cheeks, but Lilith didn’t care. Despite what everyone might think, she didn’t want to be an Unspeakable. She wanted to be a wife and mother—to offer love and protection to her family. “I’m looking forward to it,” Lilith replied cheekily.

His next words were so soft that she almost didn’t hear them. “And you’ll love me.” It sounded like a desperate plea from a broken man, instead of a confident statement from a pureblood heir. What had she been unwittingly doing to him all these years to make him speak like that? 

Lilith stared into his eyes and offered the assurance that was rapidly becoming familiar. It would have to be enough—until he trusted her feelings were real and unwavering. “With all my heart, my lord.”


	18. James Potter/Original Female Character: Dark James Plots And Plots One

Okay, here’s the thing. James Potter doesn’t want to sign the offer. He doesn’t. His hand isn’t shaking because he’s afraid, all right? It’s shaking because if it were actually physically possible to choke on self-loathing, he would be doing that right now. James knows himself, perhaps a little too well, and he’s not a good person.

James Potter is as petty as he is smart, as vindictive as he is creative, and as selfish as he is loving. Those last two go particularly well together. Nothing brings out the darkness inside him like love. Other people claim they would do anything for the people they love; he actually will, no matter how immoral or socially unacceptable it might be.

“James is always right,” he tells himself. He’s told himself that as long as he’s understood the concept of self and other things and people being his. Which, yeah, is pretty much his entire life. He was a precocious brat, picking up things years ahead of time, because normal is boring and James is not boring.

But stupid, no matter how many times Snivellus calls him that, is a lie.

If James wants to keep his loved ones safe in the coming war, and he wants nothing more right now—his greedy heart is full of three people: Sirius, Mum, and Dad—he needs to sign and submit the offer, well, request. Sure, he’ll have to wait for a confirmation, but that’s just a formality. No one turns down a Potter seeking a Master in Potions to oversee his or her apprenticeship. Potters are the best of the best of the best worldwide when it comes to potioneering.

His family wealth is built on centuries of potions that shaped the wizarding world, both frivolous and deadly.

“Normally, I’d apprentice under Dad, but—”

One scrawl of his name on the blasted parchment would keep the Dark Lord from visiting Potter Manor. A Master is magically bound to protect the Apprentice; it is equally impossible for a Master to harm an Apprentice’s family members. It is all magical honor, blah, blah, trust and loyalty, and all that rot.

“Ugh!” James screams. The quill in his hand snaps from the pressure. He drops it on the floor with a huff and snatches up another. “He better have some recipes I can steal and improve,” he grumbles as he grudgingly jots his name on the request. Before he can change his mind, James ties it to his eagle owl. Its name is Charon, because living with him can be as painful as the underworld . . . and it amuses him to see Mudbloods freaking out over the name. Evans still accuses him of being twisted and morbid. “Take it to Lord Slytherin,” James orders.

“What did you do?” Sirius Charlus Potter asks from where he leans against the bedroom door. The scar across his neck can only be seen by someone below him, as James is in his seat at his writing desk. It’s where James bled Sirius dry over the Potter ward stone three Summers past in a forbidden ritual to adopt him as a twin brother. The Slytherins have been leery of him ever since; he loves it.

James doesn’t have to be Sacred Twenty-Eight to outthink and overpower them. His blood is just as pure; and he dares anyone to claim his family magic is weak. If Cantankerus Nott weren’t still throwing a tantrum because Fleamont Potter snubbed Nott’s sister, it would be the Sacred Twenty-Nine, and his family would be in the top three. No matter how messed up they are, or perhaps because of how demented they are, Gaunts and Blacks aren’t to be dismissed.

“I bought us seven years,” James says.

“Tell me you didn’t—” Sirius groans and buries his head in his hands. “Of course, you did.” He shakes his head and focuses. “And what’re you gonna do when the seven years are up, Prongs?”

“I figure he’ll have conquered Britain by then,” James says with a careless shrug. It’ll be sad if certain people die—he isn’t entirely heartless; James does have some favorite people, after all. Some of them he even respects.

“The Dark Lord’s as possessive as Merlin, James. He bloody well Brands his followers like they’re pets with ‘return to owner’ charms.” Sirius steps closer, as if physical distance can keep someone safe; they both know better than that. “If your magic is tied to his for seven years, he’s not going to let you just leave when your time as his Apprentice is served.”

“I’m counting on it,” James says, pasting on the smirk that sends Hogwarts students, even those he nominally considers friends, cowering away from him.

“Mordred,” Sirius swears, gape-mouthed and wide-eyed. “Everyone knows he can’t have kids because of the filthy Muggles. You’re setting yourself up as his heir. Prongs that’s . . .”

“Genius?” James pats himself on the back.

“Mental. Absolutely mental,” Sirius corrects. But it’s only seconds before he’s entirely on-board the Potter Train Of Insanity, as always. “And bloody genius!” He claps his hands on James’s shoulders and shakes him while cackling. “Merlin, just imagine the Slytherins on their knees before you! Snivellus as your personal lackey! Oh, and pureblood witches being thrown at you left and right. You could sample all their kisses and their dads wouldn’t dare complain, for fear you would reject them. It’s brilliant, Prongsie! Better than the time we poisoned all the Ravenclaws the day before exams because we were bored.”

James fails to keep a straight face. “Those things might’ve occurred to me.” His lips twitch as he imagines kissing as many birds as he wants without getting called out for it. Oh, he could easily wallop the witches’ brothers, but some of their fathers know more Dark Magic than he does. It’s something he figures the Dark Lord will insist he perfect, though it will technically be a Potions Apprenticeship.

He lost all desire for Evans when the Mudblood showed interest in Snivellus; he refuses to be second choice to someone that pathetic and disgusting. His mum’s right, as always. Muggles and all their offspring are scum and beneath his notice . . . unless he needs test subjects for his newest experimental potion. Then, well, animals are fair game; why shouldn’t Muggles be?

And if all this means he might be able to keep Malfoy’s sister, when the prat won’t let anyone not of the Sacred Twenty-Eight even speak to her, well, that’s between him and his daydreams of a witch worthy of his bed. If she’s as perfect as she seems, she might even be blessed to end up with his family crest on her hand. Varinia Malfoy isn’t an eyesore, that’s for sure. And if she’s as subservient as she appears, he wants her. Evans taught him firsthand that defiance in a witch is disgusting.

“Oh, Prongsie, this is momentous!” Sirius cheers, before spinning in a circle like he’s modeling the latest wizarding fashions on the runway of Paris. That’s so two Summers ago. But so worth it. The witches on the continent are a lot more free with their lips. James lost count of how many he and Sirius worked their way through once they hit the five-hundred mark. “Think of all we have to gain!”

James is, for sure. Dad told him he could have whatever he wanted when he was three years old. He clings to that truth. James’s father has never lied to him. But he is more concerned, at the moment, with what he won’t have to lose: Mum, Dad, and Padfoot. Once their safety is guaranteed, he’ll turn his attention to greedily latching onto everything he wants that has been denied him. And he won’t stop until he’s satisfied.

James has never been satisfied a day in his life. He believes this is something he and the Dark Lord have in common. Satisfaction comes at the end of something; wizards of power and prestige are never, ever finished. There’s so much “more” in the world.

James wants all of it.

(o)

It’s been twenty-four hours, and James hasn’t received an affirmative response yet. He’s never been so offended in his entire life. Not even when a nasty Hufflepuff half-blood suddenly kissed him in Hogsmeade fifth-year in order to warn off a pureblood she should’ve been grateful was interested in her.

“What is taking so long?” James screams. He casts a spell at his dueling target that splits it from its greasy black wig all the way to the bottom of its ragged trousers. Oh, if only Snivellus were really here, he’d—”

“He still hasn’t replied?” Sirius asks, pajama pants low on his hips as he rubs at his eyes. It’s almost 4:00 p.m. They’re on London Pureblood Schedule. It’s another round of extravagant parties and dinners every night. They didn’t get home from the Crouch’s Concerto until after the sun had already risen for the day. “That’s preposterous, Prongsie!”

“I know!” James shakes. The Dark Lord should be bloody honored that James entertained the idea of asking him, let alone sent the offer. He has received no less than eight hundred and sixty-four requests to apprentice him since he graduated from Hogwarts two weeks past. Not only is he a Potter, but he is the Potter Heir. 

“Well, let’s go out, then,” Sirius says. “You’re not going to wait around for him like a lovesick witch hoping her suitor will call if she stays home all day.”

James snorts at the image. “The Poisoned Apple?” He knows as he speaks that Sirius will agree with him; Sirius always agrees with him, even before they were death-blooded twins. 

Sirius smirks. “Of course. I’m not in the mood to wear a mask and pretend I’m Prince Charming. Neither are you. The Golden Fleece is obviously out, Prongs. Just give me ten minutes and I’ll be presentable.”

Scoffing, James says, “Padfoot, you’ve never gotten ready in ten minutes in your life.”

“Watch me!”

True to form, it’s over thirty minutes before Sirius saunters out of the bedroom across from James’s. And that’s with him hurrying. James once waited two hours and twelve minutes for Sirius to get ready. If anyone else tried that, James would curse them for wasting his time and an obscene lack of punctuality. Then he would act as if they never existed for this rest of his life. But this is Sirius. James will do absolutely anything for his twin brother.

They’re wearing almost the exact same thing: dragon-hide trousers, dragon-hide boots, and the sleeveless robes that are all the rage in wizarding Italy. They button like Imperial Wizarding Russia’s militia hit-wizard squad uniform, then split into front and back coattails. The only difference is that Sirius’s robes has the Potter crest over his heart, whereas the Potter crest takes up the entire back of James’s robes.

“Well, let’s go,” Sirius says, as if he hasn’t kept James waiting. He smirks and Disapparates. 

Laughing, James waits a full thirty seconds and then follows him. He lands behind Sirius, whose wand is just slipping back into the left wrist holster. The room’s safe. Sirius has insisted on inspecting rooms before James enters them since they first met; he’s only become more insistent on it since James adopted him. Of course, if anyone ever harms Sirius while James is humoring him and letting him play Paladin, James will destroy the instigator’s family and rip their ancestral magic from them to absorb it into his own.

The youngest Fawley daughter sits not far away with a horde of younger pureblood daughters. She blushes at the sight of him and peers up at him through her eyelashes. Sirius snickers at him, and it’s only a lifetime of etiquette lessons that allows James to nod an acknowledgement to her. Evans put him off red hair for life.

That being said, James and Sirius deserve beautiful company. So James holds out his arm, while asking Sirius, “Food?” 

Sirius holds out his arm as well. “Food.”

Though all he allows on his face is a smile, James guffaws in his head as single pureblood witches rush as quickly as propriety will allow them to latch onto his and Sirius’s arms. There’s a crack of Apparation behind him, and he fights to hold in a snicker as witches’ faces fall all over the room when a small hand immediately curls around his forearm and another claims Sirius.

Isolth Montague smirks at Sirius. With her dark skin and golden eyes, she’s easily one of the standout beauties in the room. But the reason his breath is caught in his throat is because Varinia Malfoy’s touching him. She’s a Malfoy whose heritage bred true: white hair and silver eyes, petite, but with curves he could worship for a lifetime.

“Heiress Malfoy,” James says, after a quick peek over his shoulder. Lucius isn’t with her, just Thelonia Nott, so he can get away with talking to her. “Would you do me the honor of joining me for a light repast?” Varinia smiles and nods.

James’s heart pounds in his chest as he leads the way to his favorite dining hall in The Poisoned Apple. The murmur of Sirius speaking with Isolth and Thelonia, who took Sirius’s other arm, is mere background noise.

Though Varinia never speaks a word to him throughout the meal, the conversation is anything but one-sided. He’s made sure to word every question so that she can nod or shake her head in answer. Four times she’s blushed for him, and twice she’s muffled laughter with her hands.

When they’re lingering over tea two hours later, James leans closer to her and says, “I’d be honored if you’d call me James.” It’s not an intimate pet name, but it’s closer than he’s allowed most other witches. She’ll be the fourth outside his family with the right to use his given name. It’s not what he wants her to whisper in his ear before allowing him to kiss her senseless, but he knows how Lucius shelters her, and he doesn’t want to scare her away by being too forward too quickly.

Her lips part. “Ja—” A hands covers her mouth; Varinia’s skin pales almost as white as her hair.

James’s gaze snaps upward and locks on Lucius, who looks utterly terrified. He’s trembling; James honestly won’t be surprised if he collapses. “Please forgive her, Heir Potter,” Lucius begs. It’s quiet, but James knows sincere begging when he hears it; he’s a connoisseur of groveling. He’s lost count of how many people have begged him and Sirius for a reprieve from pranks or punishments or James’s boredom. “You make her feel safe. She forgot she . . . please forgive her.”

The rest of the table is unnaturally silent, especially given Sirius is sitting just three chairs away. Sirius is rarely quiet; when he is, chaos waits in the wings.

“Let her finish,” James orders, heart racing. Because he has an idea of why she’s so quiet, and it’s enthralling. With one syllable from her lips, possessive want surged through his body, and not for the reason Lucius fears.

“Heir Potter, please—”

James glares at Lucius. He loathes being denied what he wants. Oh, he always gets what he wants in the end, but the slightest delay is intolerable. He’s worthy of everything. His magical legacy is immeasurable; not being included in the Sacred Twenty-Eight means less than nothing. His mother Euphemia is barren; James was born of Magic. He’s not weak. “I didn’t master Occlumency, Lucius. I lorded it,” James says, jaw set. “Let her finish.”

“Your word she and my family will suffer no ill repercussions, Heir Potter.” Lucius’s voice is just as implacable, but twice as terrified as before.

“My word.”

James turns his full attention to Varinia as Lucius’s hand slides around to cup the back of his sister’s head. She’s biting her lower lip while tears trickle down her cheeks. “Please finish what you were going to say.”

Varinia shakes her head and stares at her lap, where her hands have wrinkled her robes by clutching them. James clasps her nearest hand with one of his own and brings it to his lips. Instead of stopping just above her hand, as is proper, he kisses her bare knuckles. As he expects, her eyes snap up and lock on his. “Finish what you were going to say, Lady Varinia, or I’m going to assume it was a request for magical sanctuary and take you home with me for one-hundred and eleven days.”

Her blushes make her even more beautiful. “Please call me Ava, James.”

It’s barely more than a whisper, but James feels the magic of it down to his bones. He wants with a fierceness he has never felt in his life. His grandfather captured and bonded with a Selkie. He has second cousins living in France that are Dark Veela. He has a first cousin who bonded with a Lycaon, and even has a pet werewolf of his own. But no Potter, ever, has stolen away a Syren.

Lucius is right to guard her so fiercely, though foolish to assume James would ever accuse her of ensnaring him with her voice. She’s in no danger of Azkaban or execution from him.

Ava. James rolls the intimate pet name through his mind. He doesn’t know if she meant to speak it or not, but he’s going to take advantage of it. She’s shown clear preference. He wants to gloat, to laugh his triumph to all the purebloods who desire her. Because intentional or not, Varinia erred.

He speaks to Lucius, though his eyes don’t stray from Varinia’s face. Through strength of will alone, he keeps his eyes from perusing her body, which now belongs to him. “I’m keeping your sister, Heir Malfoy.” James expects a violent protest. He doesn’t get one.

Lucius’s shoulders sag. “Oh, thank Merlin.” He places his hands on Varinia’s shoulders and kisses her hair, before straightening. He stands tall and firm, as if he were Atlas and just set the whole world on someone else’s shoulders, knowing he would never have to take the burden up again. It irritates James, because a Syren is not a burden; she’s an exquisite treasure. “I’ll head to Gringotts directly and transfer her dowry into your vault.”

James nods, though he wants to laugh until his lungs burn. He has a Syren bride. The most coveted pureblood witch in Wizarding Britain belongs to him. Not only that, but Lucius is paying him to take her. James had been fully prepared to offer an exorbitant amount of money as a bride price. This is, without a doubt, the best business transaction he’s ever made in his eighteen years of life.

He kisses her palm and laces his fingers through hers. “Come, Ava. I’ll give you a tour of your new home.”

Dad and Mum are going to be extremely proud of him.


	19. Lily Evans/James Potter: The Matriarchal Society One

Lily Evans threw her braid over her shoulder as Professor McGonagall led her and her parents out of Gringotts. The bag of Galleons and Sickles and Knuts felt heavy, but it made her feel like a grown-up to know that her parents trusted her to carry it. She had to be careful with it, because she needed to buy all her school supplies and a wand.

“Madam Malkin makes the best school robes,” Professor McGonagall said. “It’s just down the alley. Would you like me to accompany you?”

“I think we’ve got it from here,” Lily’s dad said. “Don’t you, dear?”

Lily’s mum laughed. “I’m sure we’ll be fine. We remember the way out, and I’m sure Lily will want to explore. It would be rude to occupy your entire afternoon.”

“You’re sure?” asked Professor McGonagall. She looked like she would be a strict teacher, but Lily was all right with that. She loved learning new things.

“Of course,” Lily’s dad said. “We’ve got it from here.”

Professor McGonagall smiled kindly, but skeptically. “Okay, then. I’ll see you on September 1, Miss Evans.”

“Thank you, Professor,” Lily said. It was harder than it should be to look at her professor as she thanked her, because there was so much new and interesting stuff to see. Diagon Alley was a feast for the eyes, and Lily hoped that she wouldn’t have to leave it any time soon.

The wards over the alley were powerful. Professor McGonagall had explained them briefly when Lily mentioned the warm, safe feeling she received after stepping through the brick wall behind the Leaky Cauldron.

“Lily, let’s go get your robes.”

“Yes, Mum,” Lily replied. She wasn’t very enthusiastic about robes; it sounded a lot like wearing a dress all the time—even boys. And Petunia, Lily’s sister, always said that Lily was ugly in dresses. Her mum and dad said she looked lovely in them, but she wasn’t sure if Petunia was just jealous, or if her parents were just being nice. She had asked Severus Snape once, but he hadn’t answered. She was still sore about that.

Lily knew she didn’t look like most girls her age—or any age, in fact. Everyone else in her family had fair hair. Lily didn’t fit in; her hair was as red as maraschino cherries and always had been. The kids at school teased her for dying it, refusing to believe it was natural. Everyone thought her eyes were colored contacts, though on one memorable occasion a boy had accused her of being an alien. Petunia said that Lily’s eyes weren’t real, because that shade of green didn’t exist in nature. Maybe she had magic eyes? Was that even possible?

A bell jangled as her dad opened the door to Madam Malkin’s shop.

“Hogwarts, dear?” a smiling witch asked.

“Yes!” Lily said. She felt a grin split her face; shopping was one of her favorite things to do, though she would never tell Severus that. He would call her a ‘girl’, and then sigh, as if she had lost all sense. It hurt when he did that, even if she knew he would apologize later.

“The Potter Heir’s being fitted, but we have room for you. Come on back, then.”

Lily followed the smiling witch after her mum and dad sat in chairs and picked up magazines with moving pictures. It was like a combination of the newspaper and television. How exciting!

“Up you go!”

After stepping on the indicated stand, Lily glanced over to her left, because the humming was distracting. A witch was on her knees on the floor, waving her wand up and down. The hem of a set of black robes stitched up in motion with her wand.

“I’m James Potter.”

A flush touched Lily’s cheeks as she realized that she had been staring. She peeked up and saw a boy; he was taller than her, but not by much. His hair was black and messy, like he couldn’t bear to sit still long enough to comb it. His smile was wide and happy. “You’re cute.” Lily slapped a hand over her mouth as soon as the words escaped, wishing she knew how to make herself invisible. She had been working hard to stop herself from saying whatever came to mind; her mum said that Lily was too open and honest. How could a person be too honest?

The witches laughed. Lily ducked her head; she hated it when people laughed at her.

“Thank you. Um, you’re cute too,” James whispered.

Was he making fun of her? Lily gathered her courage and met his gaze; he was blushing. James didn’t have that mean, lying look on his face. So she decided to mind her manners. “I’m Lily Evans.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Miss Evans,” said James. He offered her his hand.

Lily put her hand in his. Before she could shake his hand, he lifted hers and kissed her knuckles. The mirror showed that her cheeks were almost as red as her hair, but Lily didn’t care about being embarrassed. She was too awed by how James’s magic felt; it was even more warm and safe than the wards of Diagon Alley. Her mouth fell open. She wanted to trust him, and Lily’s trust was very hard to earn.

His eyes were the color of chestnuts; Lily liked them. “You feel safe,” she said. For some reason those words made him blush even darker than her hair, which she had never seen anyone do before. Feeling like she would choke if she stuck her foot any further in her mouth, Lily desperately changed the subject. “What House do you want to be in at Hogwarts?”

“Gryffindor!” James said, as if he were latching onto a lifeline. “All Potters are Sorted into Gryffindor. Honorable, you know?” Lily had no idea what that meant, but she was determined to find out; maybe the bookstore would have information on wizarding genealogy? “What House would you like to be in, Miss Evans?”

When McGonagall had described them, Lily knew that she would be Sorted into Ravenclaw. She loved learning, and she wasn’t very good at making friends. Now, though, staring into James’s chestnut-colored eyes, and feeling the comfort of his magic, she was determined to argue with the Sorting Hat until it let her be with him. “I’m going to be a Gryffindor,” Lily stated.

“Oh!” James smiled at her; his teeth were the whitest Lily had ever seen. “Then we’ll be together, Miss Evans.”

Lily liked the sound of that. She would do almost anything to stay near this cute boy and his warm magic. Was her magic comforting to him as well? If James hadn’t been so embarrassed by her comment on his magic, she would’ve asked him. She didn’t know if it was rude, though, and she didn’t want him to think she was an idiot or mean. In fact, Lily could only think of one thing she wanted to change as she and James kept glancing shyly at each other as they stumbled and stuttered through topics of conversation.

She wished James would just call her ‘Lily.’


	20. Sirius Black/Female James Potter: Her Parents Died One

Jamie Potter looked like death warmed over. She covered her mouth with her hand, as if that would be able to stifle her sobs and keep her from throwing up everything that she had eaten in the past year. Her eyes were red and puffy, and the bags under them were almost as black as her hair.

The official notice had been delivered by an owl at 2:17 a.m. Her parents, Lord and Lady Potter, had died of a sudden illness the night before.

The black lace mourning gloves she wore itched her face, but Jamie wouldn’t remove them. She couldn’t. 

“Mum and D-Dad are …”

Jamie bit her lip viciously, but it couldn’t change the truth. Her parents were dead. Dead. She was an orphan now. 

And with their passing, she was now Lady Potter.

Swallowing back tears and bile, because her headache from weeping and vomiting repeatedly was still pounding behind her eyes, Jamie pinned a black lace veil into her hair. It hung in front of her eyes, level with the bottom of her nose. It did nothing to hide how haunted she was.

The sound of Lily Evans rousing caused Jamie to straighten her back so much that it hurt. She didn’t want to see anyone; she didn’t want to face reality. She didn’t have a choice.

As Heiress Potter, she had been free to do so much that she no longer could. Like run to Sirius Black for solace and comfort. After reading the letter, she had thrust her shaking feet into her slippers, prepared to sneak into the boys’ dorm and curl up at his side, safe with him. Heiress Potter could get away with such things … because they were childhood friends and no one would ever suggest anything inappropriate had occurred.

Lady Potter, on the other hand, had to follow a plethora of laws, customs, and traditions that did not apply to a mere Heiress.

At sixteen, she was the Head of an Ancient House. The truth cut her heart to ribbons.

There wouldn’t be any more pranks. There wouldn’t be any more detentions for back-talking or joking around. Jamie crossed the dorm room and left before Lily could get out of bed and see what had happened. She didn’t want to talk about it. “There won’t be any more Quidditch,” Jamie breathed. She was the last of her bloodline now; she couldn’t participate in anything dangerous that might harm her and chance wiping out her family forever.

“No more broom racing. No more Abraxan riding. No more dueling tournaments.” With each truth Jamie spoke, she felt the walls close in around her. Until she bonded and bore a child to carry on her bloodline, her life might as well not be her own.

Jamie pressed a shaking hand to her mouth. No more sleeping in Sirius’s bed when she had a nightmare. No more safe, warm hugs whenever she wanted one. No more strong arms wrapped around her waist or hands at her back to guide her. No more studying curled up at his side. No more jokes from her mother about Potters being unable to resist Blacks.

The sun was rising. Jamie wished it wouldn’t. Why should the world go on, as if hers hadn’t just ended?

“Jamie, you’re up—”

She dropped her hand to her chest, squeezed it into a fist, and rasped, “Don’t call me that.”

Sirius’s exuberant footsteps halted. The common room was painfully silent. “What’s wrong, Jamie? What ha—?”

Jamie wanted to curl in a ball in his lap and cry harder than ever. But she couldn’t. She wasn’t allowed to do that anymore. She straightened her posture even more, as if she were in the presence of Mother Magic herself, waiting to pass inspection as a worthy pureblood lady. “Please don’t refer to me so familiarly.”

Sirius made a sound that was a mix of outrage and a puppy’s whimper. It tore Jamie’s heart even further. Pushing him away … there was nothing in the world that could hurt him more. Jamie didn’t have a choice.

“Heiress Potter, I—”

It took everything Jamie had not to flinch away and vomit. Sirius had never called her that in their lives. And the first time he did, it no longer applied. “Wrong again,” she whispered. She dropped her hands to her sides, so he could see the mourning gloves.

“No.” Sirius took a stumbling step forward. “No. No. No!” He ran across the room to her, grief and disbelief in his voice. He reached for her shoulder. 

For the first time in her life, Jamie deliberately moved away from Sirius Black. Her stomach roiled as she turned to face him. Her family honor was the only thing keeping her from throwing herself into his arms—the one place she always yearned to be.

“I name you Gryffindor Quidditch Captain in my place. I apologize for the inconvenience of deserting you mid-season.” Jamie hated each word that left her mouth. Too formal. Too distant. Too not her-and-Sirius.

“I don’t care about Quidditch!” Sirius snapped. “I care about you!”

“Thank you for your consideration,” she stated, words falling from her lips by rote. She didn’t want to say that. She wanted to say how much she loved him. Jamie wanted to beg him to hold her. She wanted to find a Time-Turner and change the past.

“Your mum asked me to wait until we graduated,” Sirius whispered. He reached for Jamie, but she took another step back. They both flinched. “She’ll have to forgive me. I won’t leave you alone and untouchable for over a year. I won’t. My mother banished me, so I don’t need her approval to forsake my birth name. Regulus can rule the cursed family when he’s older.” Sirius knelt and offered Jamie his wand. “I don’t have a home, and the only wealth I have is what Uncle Alphard left me. But I would rather rot in Azkaban for a decade than be unable to hold you in my arms everyday and give you all the love in my soul. Bond with me, Lady Potter. Please,” Sirius begged.

Jamie’s already cracked façade crumpled. She collapsed in his arms and stabbed a lance of her magic through both their hearts. It was the most exquisite agony she had ever felt. “Bound by Magic, never to part.”

“May I ever live in your heart,” Sirius finished, completing the vows.

The new Lord and Lady Potter clutched each other desperately, trembling, and huddled on the floor. Their first kiss was wet with tears.

“I thought I lost you, too,” Jamie whimpered. “I thought I lost all of you at the same time.” She burrowed against him. “I wanted to die.”

“Never!” Sirius kissed her fiercely. “You’ll never lose me.” His eyes were haunted, and his hands still shook against her. “Let’s leave Britain. Let’s get away from the war and the Dark Lord. Please, Jamie. If anything happened to you … I …” His grip hurt.

Even though the Honorable and Most Ancient House of Potter had been located in England for centuries, Jamie understood her husband’s point-of-view all too well. Losing him would destroy her utterly. So she forfeited without a fight. “Whatever you desire, my lord, is yours.”


	21. Lucius Malfoy/Female James Potter: James is a Seer One

Heiress Jamie Potter’s magic went wild when she turned sixteen. Unknown to her parents, the Black family Seer powers had been passed down to her by her mother. And to better view the world—past, present, and future—a Seer’s shields dissolved when he or she came of age to properly utilize the gift.

Jamie clutched her head and screamed. Her soul felt naked to the surroundings, nothing to protect it from the raw input of the world and the other students in Hogwarts.

“What’s wrong?” Lily Evans asked. “Jamie, what happened? What’s wrong?”

Convulsing, Jamie continued to scream and cry. Her roommates alternately attempted to help her, find out what was wrong, and sent for Professor McGonagall.

Jamie had never taken Divination. She hadn’t recognized the signs because she had always assumed her magical inheritance would come from her paternal line. She was, after all, Heiress Potter—not Heiress Black. And now her ignorance was exacting a brutal price.

Desperate for anything to stop the pain, Jamie reached out with her magic. It evaluated everyone it touched, and then pressed farther through the castle, picking up speed and urgency as it went.

“Jamie? Jamie!” Lily sounded frantic as she sat beside Jamie on the bed, trying to hold her still. She didn’t use any spells, likely afraid that she would make Jamie’s malady worse.

Just when Jamie was about to give up hope of finding anything with which to shield herself, her magic brushed against an enormous well of magic. It wasn’t Light. If Jamie wanted to keep her sanity, she didn’t have time to care about what that meant. So Jamie latched onto it and siphoned the magic from its source. She yanked it by the fistful and buried herself in it. She borrowed so much magic that a rippling gray veil began to cover her body, pushing away all who attempted to approach.

“What’s going on?” Professor McGonagall asked.

Too busy struggling to shield herself, Jamie didn’t answer. 

Lily said, “It’s her birthday, Professor. I think she received an unexpected inheritance.” Lily’s voice was thick with tears as her hands fluttered outside the gray veil of magic. “She was screaming in pain, Professor, and I couldn’t do anything!”

The agony of so many souls and foreign magics touching her lessened as the shield around her strengthened. Jamie whimpered and shook. If her parents had possessed even an inkling that she would receive Seer powers, she never would have been at Hogwarts on her sixteenth birthday; they might not have allowed her to attend Hogwarts at all. Too many Seers had been kidnapped or driven insane for the Potters to chance the loss of their only daughter.

“It hurts,” she whimpered.

“What hurts, Miss Potter? What’s happened?”

Jamie couldn’t answer McGonagall’s second question. If news of her powers got out.… She shuddered, and it had nothing to do with the pain. She couldn’t think of a single pureblood family that wouldn’t scheme at the lowest of levels to have their own personal Seer—one bonded to the family and unable to betray them.

“I need … I need …” Jamie squeezed her eyes shut and folded the borrowed magic more tightly against her. It was so thick now that a gray haze colored all she saw when she opened her eyes again.

“Here,” Lily said, before attempting to hand her a glass of water; it couldn’t pass through the shields. She ended up setting it down on the nightstand, where Jamie picked it up. “Drink this. Your throat … it must hurt terribly.” Lily was pale and shaking, arms wrapped around herself. “You were screaming for almost half an hour, Jamie.”

“That long?” she rasped. It had felt like much longer to her. Then again, the countless flashes of visions that were all jumbled together in her head and made no sense surely contributed to her distorted understanding of how much time had passed.

Lily’s smile trembled. “Can you tell me what—?”

There was a shriek of surprise by the doorway, and then Jamie’s other three roommates all jumped on their beds and closed the hangings. Lucius Malfoy stood in the doorway; his posture reeked of predator. He was decidedly rumpled, as if he had climbed out of bed, thrown on the nearest clothes, and sprinted all the way to Gryffindor Tower from the dungeons.

“Mr. Malfoy! How did you get up the staircase to the ladies’ dormitories? You will leave at once!” McGonagall snapped, scowling. “You’ll be serving detention with—”

Lucius strolled past her as if she wasn’t still speaking, deducting more points from Slytherin by the second. He spared a glance for Lily, whose face was now as red as her hair. However, Lily didn’t dive behind her own bed hangings; she stayed at Jamie’s side.

“I’ll pay for the damage to the Guardian Portrait,” Lucius informed McGonagall.

“Damage? What damage, Mr. Malfoy?” McGonagall shook with rage, something Sirius Black, Jamie’s favorite cousin, hadn’t been able to accomplish in five years.

As Lucius’s eyes trailed over her, Jamie was oddly grateful that she was wearing her nicest nightgown. It was gold and embroidered. It made her look like a woman, not a child. With every step closer he took, her pain faded a little more. Lucius eyed the gray veil of magic and hummed. “Heiress Potter, now would be the appropriate time to explain why you’ve siphoned my magic.”

“I …” Jamie stared at her hands.

“Jamie—”

“With all due respect, Miss Evans, my question was meant for Heiress Potter,” Lucius interjected.

“I need it,” Jamie stated. The thought of releasing it and not having the shield of magic around her was terrifying. The gray haze lightened, then turned translucent, as Lucius’s magic lay against her skin like an invisible layer of protection.

Lucius cocked an eyebrow. “How long, exactly, will you need my magical protection, Heiress Potter?”

Jamie hated how weak she felt. She was top of her year in Defense. She had received the highest ever-recorded score on the Defense O.W.L. last year when she took it early. She was the fifteen-and-under dueling champion of the British Isles. Yet, without Lucius’s magic surrounding her, she could apparently no longer function. 

“I believe I’ll need it”—she met his gaze and prayed honesty wouldn’t cost her—“until I die.”

“Miss Potter, surely you’re over—”

“It’s against Malfoy Family Law to offer such protection to someone that is not a current or intended member of the family,” Lucius said.

Wait, what? That had been the most roundabout probing on whether a witch would be receptive to a wizard’s proposal that she had ever heard in her life. Jamie didn’t love Lucius Malfoy. She had never interacted with him on more than a superficial level. However, he was what her magic found and clung to when insanity encroached and self-protection was an impossibility.

“Mr. Malfoy—” McGonagall might as well have not been there for how much attention she was receiving.

“Rumor has it that you’re engaged to Lady Narcissa Black,” Jamie said, wanting to make sure she had properly understood him.

A look had never been as derisive as the one Lucius wore then. “Rumor also has it that you and Heir Black eloped over the Yule Holidays.”

Lily snorted. “I know. Sirius started that one himself to keep Pettigrew away from her.” She blushed again. “Sorry for interrupting!”

“I’m not engaged.”

“And I’m not bonded,” Jamie countered.

Lucius studied her intently with a serious mien. “Would my magical protection be worth giving up your dreams of bonding with someone you love, Heiress Potter?” Lucius queried.

“Do you consider yourself unlovable, Heir Malfoy?” Jamie asked. His parents couldn’t have taught him that; it was the most poorly kept secret that Malfoy parents were overly indulgent with love and gifts when out of the public’s view.

“No.” He stared at her as if she had said something surprising. “I’m a Dark wizard, Heiress Potter. Could you truly love a Dark wizard?”

Jamie knew he expected an instant response, which were typical of Gryffindors, so she took the time to think about it. They would celebrate the holidays with different rituals, customs, and traditions … unless she forsook her heritage to learn the Dark. Given her mother’s bloodline, and the inheritance Jamie had received, that might be the wisest path for her to take, regardless of whether Lucius offered his protection permanently or ripped his magic away from her.

“Dark or Light, how could I not love a wizard who forfeited his own chance to bond for love to offer me his protection?” Jamie countered. A glimpse of the future came to her then, and it sent her heartbeat racing. It overflowed with love and joy.

“Show me you mean that, Heiress Potter, and my magical protection is yours.”

“Mr. Malfoy! How dare you insinuate that she—?”

Jamie groaned. McGongall’s inability to catch the nuances of a conversation was an absolute curse at times. Lucius had asked for an expression of trust, not that she bed him!

“Will my inheritance suffice?” At Lucius’s acknowledging nod, Jamie donned the wrap that matched her nightgown and led him to the farthest corner of the dormitory. Telling people in general frightened her, but informing Lucius felt right—especially since he was going to be her bonded lord. She needn’t worry about neglect or unhappiness at his hands. The love would come; she knew it would.

“Why did you siphon my magic, Heiress Potter?” Lucius asked, eyes occasionally straying from her face to take in the rest of her. It was appreciative, but not a leer. Her skin warmed instead of crawling.

“Our firstborn is going to be your heir, Lucius,” she whispered, dropping his title. It didn’t feel right to use it now. “His name will be Draconis Lucius Malfoy. He’ll have your hair and eyes and my smile. He’s going to make the Slytherin Quidditch team as Seeker in his first year. He’ll be a spoiled brat, but we’ll love him anyway.”

“Our firstborn?”

“Yes, our firstborn.”

Lucius grabbed her hand. “That implies there will be more children, Heiress Potter. The Malfoy Family has only produced one child per generation—”

“Since Lord Perontius Malfoy accidentally caused the death of one of Mother Magic’s Chosen, bringing ill fortune on the entire family.”

“How could you possibly know that?” Lucius asked, sounding wary.

“Because I’ve Seen it,” Jamie replied. “I’ve Seen what happened as a result of it.” 

Lucius grasped her shoulders. “What else do you See?”

“Mother Magic’s forgiveness, Lucius. I See Mother’s Magic forgiveness,” Jamie whispered. “I See prosperity, a way to save your father from a fatal illness, and your mother from a fatal riding accident. I See our sons and daughters, and their sons and daughters.”

“Why now? After all this time, why will Mother Magic forgive us now?”

Jamie wrapped her arms around his waist and hugged him. “Because you offered protection to Mother Magic’s most fragile Chosen, without any ulterior motives. You offered while believing that I would never love you.”

Lucius hugged her back then; his grip was gentle and strong at the same time. “Thank you, my lady, for stealing my magic.”

She recalled the faces of her and Lucius’s future children. They were many. Jamie’s lips curled in a smirk. “It will be my pleasure.”


	22. Frank Longbottom/Female James Potter: The Brave Dare One

"All right. Gather 'round. It's time for the drawing!"

Jamie Potter rolled her eyes. It was a Gryffindor House tradition--the Proof of Courage. Every Sunday morning, two garish hats (that she knew had been stolen from Headmaster Dumbledore) were held aloft by the seventh year prefects. One hat held one piece of paper for every Gryffindor student, bearing each student's full name. The second hat held slips of paper with daring feats on them. The first day of each school year, every student wrote down a single test of courage and submitted it into the second hat.

Like clockwork, every Sunday morning, a name and slip of paper with a dare were drawn. The named student only had until the end of the day to complete his or her task. Since each student had submitted their own name in pen and magic, failure to fulfill the requirements was ... Unpleasant.

"Just get it over with already," Jamie grumbled.

"I know! They're dragging it out forever today!" Sirius Black, her best friend, complained. "I hope it's me. I haven't been chosen since third year!"

Personally, as much as Jamie adored pranks, she hated this Proof of Courage tradition. 

Her name had been chosen twice. The first time, when she was just a first year, she had to steal a book from the Restricted Section. Jamie ended up grabbing one that was cursed. She spent almost a month in the hospital wing recovering from a stabbing pain in her head that worsened whenever she moved.

Then, the last week of her second year, Jamie had had to be a Slytherin for the day. The magic of the blasted Proof of Courage had actually ReSorted her for just one day. So she wore the Slytherin uniform, ate at their table, sat with them in classes, and was forced to join them in their common room for the evening, as well as sleep in the girls' dormitories for a night.

The Slytherins had not been amused.

They hadn't killed her or dragged her to their Dark Lord, though. So, that was good, right?

The female prefect, Camellia Brown, pulled a piece of paper from the hat that held the names. "Jamie Potter!" she announced.

Jamie almost swore, she was so upset. But not only would that be unladylike, and greatly upsetting to her mother, it also wouldn't change anything. Why couldn't Sirius's name have been chosen? He actually liked this stupid tradition.

Frank Longbottom, the male prefect, pulled a slip of paper from his hat. He paled. "I'll just choose again, yeah?"

"That's against the rules!" Lily Evans said. "The hat won't let you pick again." 

No matter how he tried, Frank's hand wouldn't go back in the hat he held. Jamie started to worry. What was so bad that he had reacted like that? None of the prefects had ever tried to redraw the daring feat in all the years she had been at Hogwarts.

"I'm sorry, Heiress Potter," Frank whispered. 

"Don't be so melodramatic, Frankie," Sirius said. "It can't really be all that bad, can it?"

Sometimes Sirius's inability to notice what was really going on around him drove Jamie crazy. How could he be that thick? Of course it was bad! Frank wouldn't have reacted like he did otherwise. "What do I have to do by the end of the day?" Jamie asked. Worst case scenarios ran through her head.

The Proof of Courage test was worse than everything she thought.

"Confess your feelings to the person you love," Frank whispered.

"What?" she rasped. Pureblood witches did not confess. Pureblood wizards expressed interest in whom they liked, and then the pureblood witches got to accept or reject them—if their parents allowed them to have any input at all. And on top of that, she had been very careful to hide her real feelings. Not even her mother knew whom she had fallen in love with. "I can't ..."

"I'm so sorry," Frank said.

Jamie almost threw up in front of everyone in the common room. This could not possibly be happening to her! 

Sirius nudged her with his elbow. "Maybe he won't mind, Jamie. Maybe he'll be happy to know how you feel about him."

"He's engaged," Jamie said, hands shaking. This couldn't be happening to her. It couldn't!

"What?" Sirius paled, like Frank had earlier. She wasn't surprised that he was shocked at her interest in an engaged wizard. That had to be the reason for his reaction, didn't it? In her defense, she had fallen in love with him before he got engaged.

Once again, Frank blanched and said, "I'm sorry, Heiress Potter."

The hats weren't as strict as the Goblet of Fire, but they would still wreak havoc with her magic, causing it to fluctuate and twist, as if she were still a child with no control. It would hamper her schoolwork. It would continue to worsen the longer she went without fulfilling the feat.

Jamie pushed herself to her feet and wrapped her arms around herself. "Worse case scenario, I start a blood feud. It can't get worse than that ... I think." She walked over to Frank.

Frank held out the paper, so she could see the words for herself. "I ..."

Without glancing at the slip of paper, Jamie set her hands on Frank's shoulders for balance. She leaned up and kissed his cheek. After pulling away she smiled sadly at him. "Alice is a lucky witch, Heir Longbottom."

He made a strangled sound in his throat. It was the only noise in the room. Frank grasped her elbow, so she couldn't back away without struggling. "You're going to bond with Sirius, Heiress Potter. Everyone knows that. No one ever doubted it," he whispered.

"No, I'm not." Was that why no one had ever asked her on a Courtship Date? They all just assumed she was in love with her best friend? "I love Sirius to death, but not like that," Jamie replied.

This time Sirius was the one who sounded like he was being strangled. Jamie was shocked. He wasn't really in love with her, was he? That would be devastating; she couldn't return those feelings.

"I need to speak with Alice first, to explain things, but if you'd allow it, I would love to take you to Hogsmeade next weekend."

Alice was sweet. She was one of Jamie's friends, though not the closest. It would break Alice's heart if Frank broke off their engagement. The three of them would be in the middle of a scandal. The gossip would be rampant. If everyone had really thought she was going to bond with Sirius, she could only imagine how twisted and deformed and cruel the story would become.

But when it came to things that really mattered to her, Jamie Potter had always been selfish.

"I'd love that."


	23. James Potter/Female Regulus Black: The Soulmate Words One

“Lily-Flower, you look ravishing this—”

“Shut up, Potter!” Lily Evans snapped. Her green eyes flashed with annoyance.

James Potter almost cursed her. Her tone of voice was disrespectful, but it was the way that she spat his last name—as if it were something vile and filthy—that nearly ruined his control. How dare she?

“Mudblood wretch,” Sirius Black hissed under his breath. He was leaning against the corridor wall, bristling with rage. If James hadn’t placed a hand on Sirius’s arm, his blood brother would’ve sent her to St. Mungo’s.

He forced another lie through his lips, loathing the revolting words—as always. “Will you allow me to escort you—?”

“I’m not interested, Potter!” Lily snapped, red hair falling forward over her shoulder. It was a disgrace. Her hair should’ve been up, even though she was a Muggle-born. She was insulting her soul-mate in the extreme by allowing other men to see it down. If Lily Evans had been his true soul-mate, and not just a means to an end, James might not have wanted her at all. “How many times do I have to turn you down before my words pierce your thick skull?”

A series of hisses filled the corridor as several students stepped out of the library.

“At least once more,” Sirius said. The smile that stretched his lips was tight and unpleasant.

Her words hurt. How many times would he have to deal with this public humiliation before he finally found his soul-mate? James’s soul-mark had arrived before his second birthday, so he knew he was older than his soul-mate. The only reason he had ever even spoken to Lily Evans—the first Muggle-born he had ever met—was because of his soul-mark: the first words his soul-mate would ever speak to him.

Starting at his left hip and curling down his left leg to his knee were the words that would help him find the future bride Mother Magic had chosen especially for him. In beautiful calligraphy, they read: It’s appalling how you pursue a filthy Mudblood, Heir Potter. Have you no self-respect?

He had waited until third year to “fall madly in love with Lily Evans,” because there was no chance his soul-mate would be old enough to attend Hogwarts before then.

“You always say that!” Lily complained. “Why don’t you just give up already? I don’t like you. There’s nothing appealing about you, Potter.” She crossed her arms and stamped her foot like a child. “You’re immature, rash, lazy, and a bully. It’s no wonder you’ve never had a date!”

If the wall hadn’t been behind him, James would’ve retreated a step. Her words gouged at his self-confidence. He had been dealing with her verbal abuse for four years now, and it seemed he was no closer to finding his soul-mate, no closer to courtship dates, holding hands, kisses, and magical bonding.

Sirius had felt so guilty about finding his soul-mate in Heiress Elaine Fawley last year that he hadn’t told James about her for almost three months. Then Sirius had followed up his confession with a vow on their blood brotherhood that he wouldn’t bond until James could bond as well.

“Watch your mouth, Evans, before I sew it shut. I shouldn’t be surprised that you’re too simpleminded to understand that you have no right to address your betters in such an uncouth manner.” Regina Black stepped away from a small group of Slytherin girls, her voice frigid and biting. “Then again, I couldn’t expect any better of a Mudblood, could I? Your filthy, degenerate parents probably lied to you and told you that you’re special and beautiful. You’re not, Evans. You’re nothing more than the result of a dalliance between two people who aren’t soul-mates.” Regina didn’t even need to wrinkle her nose to convey her absolute disgust. “Your heritage is so revolting that I wouldn’t even waste the effort to spit on it. Doing so would allow you too much contact with me.”

It was entertaining to see Lily turn white as stone, and then blush redder than her hair. “H-how dare you talk to me like that, Black? Twenty-five points from Slytherin for disrespecting the head girl!”

“Heiress Black,” James corrected. He would not tolerate anyone dishonoring a pureblood lady by stealing her title from her, not even if it hurt his quest to find his soul-mate. His honor wouldn’t allow it.

“My sister is Heiress Black,” Sirius said at the same time, muscles coiling like they did before he shifted into Padfoot and tackled Moony. “You will grant her the respect she deserves.” The jocular tone that usually dominated Sirius’s voice was gone. James hadn’t heard this flinty bite in Sirius’s voice since they followed the Marauder’s Map and found Heir Lucius Malfoy unchaperoned with Sirius’s cousin Narcissa.

Regina turned her piercing gray eyes on James. She swept a loose lock of hair back up into her butterfly-shaped braids, and wended it back into the style with magic. The white lace of her gloves was a stark contrast against the true black of her hair. “It’s appalling how you pursue a filthy Mudblood, Heir Potter. Have you no self-respect?”

James swayed, heart racing in his chest, wondering if he had just imagined the words because he wanted so desperately for a witch to speak them to him. His leg throbbed. He leaned his head against Sirius’s shoulder and shook with anticipation. “Padfoot?” Until he heard his own voice, he hadn’t known what real begging meant.

Sirius looked stunned, and then his barking laughter echoed down the corridor. It was so loud that James expected Madam Pince to storm out of the library any second and demand that they be quiet. “Yes, Prongs,” he said when he finally stopped laughing. The smirk on his face was smugger than Lucius had ever achieved. “Yes.”

Feeling light-headed, James had to focus on walking for the first time since he was a child. Regina was only feet away. His soul-mate was within reach. If he tripped or fainted, he would never forgive himself. It had taken much too long to find her in the first place.

“I hate her,” James said. Regina’s eyes widened the slightest bit. “I’ve been using her this entire time just so that I could finally find you.”

“W-what? You’re k-kidding, right? Potter?” Lily asked. It sounded like she was crying. James didn’t spare her a single glance.

Regina placed a hand just beneath her right breast and took a shaky breath. Her other hand reached out toward him, but stopped before making contact. He lifted it to his lips and kissed it. Pink dusted across Regina’s cheeks as she stared at her hand in his. “My lord.”

James twined their fingers together and tugged her down the corridor, lessening his strides so she could keep up. “Padfoot,” he said, voice adamant as he passed Sirius.

“I’m here, Prongs,” Sirius assured him, chuckles still escaping him as he glanced back at the people they had left behind. The Marauders loved making mischief and causing chaos. He skipped ahead and yanked open the nearest door, which led to a parlor that was rarely used. Sirius followed them into the room, closed the door, and began a conversation with a portrait that just-so-happened to be facing the opposite direction.

Before James could think of what to say, Regina kissed him. She leaned up on her tiptoes, hands against his chest for balance, and kissed James with abandon. His eyes closed as he wrapped his arms around her waist and helped support her. When he opened his eyes his glasses were crooked, his lips were sore, and he whispered, “Merlin, you’re beautiful.”

Regina pouted slyly and batted her eyelashes at him. “You think Merlin’s beautiful? I must not have done that right. I want you to think I’m beautiful, James.” Then she promptly guided their lips back together, one hand sliding up to feather through his hair.

“I . . .” Words failed him as he gazed upon her flushed cheeks and swollen lips. Her gray eyes glittered with passion.

“Regina,” Sirius said, back still turned.

“Curse you, Sirius,” Regina grumbled. Her arms dropped to hug James. “You know what kind of wizard he is. Do you really think I’m going to let go of him by choice.”

Sirius huffed a laugh, and then walked over to them with an apologetic face. “Sorry, Prongs. I know how much you hate this.” Sirius gently grasped Regina’s wrists and removed her from James’s arms, before tucking her against his side.

“I will forgive you, Padfoot. In a bit. I’m still trying not to punch you in the face for touching her so familiarly, even though she’s your sister,” he grumbled. He had finally found her and all he wanted was to keep her in his arms.

Regina looked up at Sirius. The pale arch of her neck drew James’s attention. He wanted nothing more than to kiss it. “If you don’t find time every day to chaperone us, I’ll never forgive you, Sirius. James owes me.”

“What does he owe you?” Sirius asked, forehead wrinkled.

She smirked and trailed the back of her hand down one of James’s cheeks. “A kiss for every day of my life I spent without him.” Regina’s smirk widened when James gasped. “I won’t be satisfied until the debt is paid in full.”

Sirius winced. “Thanks ever so much for that visual, Regina,” he said sarcastically.

James wondered how he would ever be able to sleep with that picture in his head. “Never let it be said, my lady, that Heir Potter reneged on his debts.” He nipped the fingertip closest to his mouth. “It will be my greatest pleasure to see you satisfied.”

Ignoring the choking sounds Sirius made, Regina grinned. “We’re going to Hogsmeade at 10:00 tomorrow morning, James. Then you can get started on the thousands of kisses you owe me.” A flash of pain appeared in her lovely gray eyes. “Plea”—her voice broke the slightest bit—“please don’t keep me waiting.”

The remembered pain of not having found his soul-mate was still too near the surface for James to even consider teasing her. They had kept each other waiting long enough already. “I won’t.”


	24. Tom Marvolo Riddle/Female James Potter: How to Accidentally Seduce the Dark Lord One

Isla Potter breathed a sigh of relief as she spotted the tall figure in front of her. The wizard’s black hair was tied back at his nape—a mark of a pureblood lord. Now she just had to pray to Merlin that he would do his lordly duty and protect her.

Curse her cousin, Sirius Black, for daring her to sneak into Knockturn Alley and buy something. Doubly curse her for being foolish enough to perform such a fool-hearted act.

“Imbecile,” Isla hissed at herself as she tightened her grip on her wand. Normally, she knew she could handle most threats. She was vicious with a wand, and she didn’t hold with dueling etiquette outside of a formal duel. She was the best duelist at Hogwarts, and that wasn’t her ego talking. When the Slytherins traded favors and materials goods for the opportunity to practice with her, she challenged anyone to say she wasn’t the best.

However, Isla wasn’t prideful enough to think she could defeat seven Death Eaters on her own.

“Almost safe,” she whispered as she hurried forward. The bag from Borgin & Burkes knocked against her side. She had won the dare. Too bad for her that seven Death Eaters had come through the Floo as she was leaving the store. Her prize for completing the dare wasn’t going to be worth the trouble.

Once the Death Eater garb went on, the gentlemen lost their pureblood manners when it came to Light wizards and witches. On a normal day, she could trust Heir Malfoy or Heir Lestrange or Heir Crouch with anything—no matter how sensitive. As soon as they donned the masks, though, nothing was safe anymore.

Isla had a second to hope that the pureblood lord she had caught up with wasn’t bonded—because what she was about to do would be unforgivable in that case—before she looped her arm through his. “Sorry to keep you waiting, darling. Burke’s service was especially inferior today,” Isla said in her most posh voice. Then she leaned up and kissed the wizard on the lips.

It was not, by any stretch of the imagination, how Isla had imagined her first kiss happening. But some sacrifices were worth her life.

An amused hum echoed against her lips. Isla glanced up into scarlet eyes and froze. Merlin above, she was kissing Lord Slytherin! She had grabbed a hold of and kissed the Dark Lord!

As if her actions had been an invitation, Marvolo Gaunt—the Dark Lord—wrapped his arms around her and kissed her as if she were already his bonded wife. He kissed with passionate intent. Isla trembled in his arms; her knees shook. If he hadn’t held her so obscenely tightly to his chest, she would have fallen to the ground.

A series of strangled gasps sounded behind her.

Cheeks hot, Isla tore her lips away. She fisted her hands in Marvolo’s robes so that she wouldn’t slip boneless from his arms. She didn’t need a mirror to know she was blushing as brightly as Evans’ hair.

A glance was all it took for her to calm slightly. The Death Eaters were kneeling on the cobblestones, their masks pointed toward the ground. They had no doubt glimpsed the incident, but it didn’t seem like they had shamelessly watched the entire encounter.

Thank Morgana for small favors.

“Apologies, my lord.” Isla recognized the voice as belonging to Lucius Malfoy. “If we had known she was your lady, we never would’ve dream—”

“You dare dream of my lady?” Marvolo’s tone of voice was such that Isla could only thank Merlin it wasn’t aimed at her.

“We’re sorry for frightening you, my lady,” Rodolphus Lestrange said. “It won’t happen again.”

“See that it doesn’t,” Isla bit out, before freezing. Had she really just given a command to a Death Eater as if she expected it to be obeyed? And in the Dark Lord’s presence! Was she trying to get herself killed?

“You will protect my lady with your life,” Marvolo ordered. Somehow, even though his words didn’t contain any s’s, it still sounded sibilant. “Leave us.”

When they were alone, Marvolo grasped her chin and tilted it up. He moved her face this way and that way, examining every inch of her, as if she were an Abraxan he was looking to buy. “That was your first kiss, Heiress Potter?”

Her cheeks felt even hotter than before. “Yes, Lord Slytherin,” Isla whispered. Soon enough, he would grow bored with her bravery and stupidity and let her go. Just like how the Death Eaters changed when they wore their garb, the Dark Lord never harmed an innocent when he was dressed in the robes and rank of Lord Slytherin.

“Oh?” When Marvolo kissed her this time, he licked his way into her mouth. She collapsed against him and wanted to hate the way he smirked against her lips in response. But all she knew was that she needed to get away from him . . . even though all she wanted was to keep kissing him, even if it got her killed. “No one’s ever tasted you before?” he purred after pulling back.

“No, my lord,” she whispered. Isla was so overcome with uncharacteristic shyness that she could barely speak. She couldn’t even meet his eyes with false indignation for his manhandling. She was enjoying every second of it, and he was worldly enough to realize that.

His laughter was just like he was—deceitful. “Your father can expect the contract by owl this evening.”

What? Isla barely dared to breathe at the implications. “My lord?”

“If you love your father, you’ll convince him to sign it.” Marvolo kissed her a final time. It was the softest, gentlest, most tender of all. Somehow, this was the kiss that terrified her. “I do not share—ever. I will not start with my lady.”

Marvolo stroked her hair and walked off before she could gather enough mental power to offer even a token response. Isla lifted a shaking hand to her chest and watched his robes disappear around the corner of a shop.

Isla didn’t know how long she stood in the middle of the alley in shock, but it was long enough for Lucius to appear beside her. He placed her arm atop his and said, “It will be my honor to escort you safely home, Heiress Potter.” 

“Thank you,” Isla replied, barely aware of her surroundings. She followed his lead wherever he led, mind abuzz with her shifting reality.

Her heart stuttered in her chest as she acknowledged what had to be done. Isla had to return home to Potter Manor and inform her father—who had forbidden her from participating in courtship dates until she was seventeen—that while escaping from seven Death Eaters she had accidentally seduced the Dark Lord.

And after the rage dimmed, Isla knew exactly what Lord Charlus Potter would say. “The Dark Lord? Perfect.” A smile would split his face that no Slytherin would ever believe a Gryffindor capable of making. “Well done, Isla. It seems we’ll live, after all.”


	25. Tom Marvolo Riddle/Female James Potter: Lucius Presents Her to the Dark Lord One

Dark Magic was beautiful.

It was enchanting, luxurious, and seductive. It was a whisper against soft skin, and a brush of lips against blood-soaked hair. It beckoned you closer, one baby step at a time, until shadows wrapped around you—an impenetrable defense.

It was everything that Light Magic wasn’t.

Light Magic was hideous.

It was blunt, rough, and jittery. It was lye soap against raw wounds, and pinpricks of ice water running down your spine. It grabbed hold of you and yanked you around, like a child with its favorite toy—not a hint of finesse or care in sight.

Lady Isla Potter would never forget the difference between the two. How could she, when she had been forced to leave her birth home (where Dark Magic painted every surface) for another? Being inside a manor drenched in Light Magic was, Isla imagined, like spending your life knowing you were a Mermaid, only to be hauled onto a beach and left to gasp for air that would never come.

“Ready, dearie?” Missus Euphemia Potter asked.

Isla closed her eyes, loathing the patronizing nickname her aunt had given her at the start of the summer. She had been forced to move in with her aunt and uncle after the school year ended, because her parents had passed away. She might have had to live there until she was of age (curse the Ministry and their uninformed laws to the deepest depths of Azkaban), but she wasn’t a simpleton. She was sixteen years old, not three.

“Yes, Aunt Euphemia,” Isla replied. Usually, she was excited for summer. Even more so, she was ever delighted to return to Hogwarts. She was descended, after all, from Lord Gryffindor—regardless of how distant that relation might be. Right then, though, Isla was tired. She was weary. And her aunt and uncle had only heaped more exhaustion upon her.

“All right, squirt! Time to head out!” Mister Fleamont Potter said with a dorky grin on his face.

For a moment, Isla allowed a favorite fantasy to play out in her head: one in which she punched her uncle in the face. Every time the man opened his mouth, he reminded her in the most painful of ways that her parents were dead of dragon pox. Because her father, Mother Magic bless his soul, would never call her that. She was his princess, his dearest one, his blessing, his greatest treasure.

A ghost of a kiss lit upon her brow; Isla’s hazel eyes, staring back at her in the foyer mirror, blurred.

“Is everything all right, dearie? You look a mite peaky. Too excited to sleep last night?” Euphemia tutted. 

She grabbed Isla in a hug; that, too, was wrong. Isla’s mother, Dorea Potter nee Black, never grabbed for her. No, her mother would fold her close in her arms, a safe haven to block out the rest of the world.

“May we leave, please?” Isla asked. Somehow, Mother Magic gave her patience. All she wanted to do was scream her pain. She had not often been left alone over the summer; each time Euphemia or Fleamont spoke to her felt like an intrusion on her grief.

What business of theirs was it if she wanted to cry for weeks, or not eat for days, or wear only the brightest of ivories? She was a Dark Witch, and white was the color of agony unbearable—the color of Light Magic. They had no right to suggest she change into ebonies; she wasn’t a Light Witch in mourning.

“Sure thing, squirt.”

Fleamont reached for her arm, to Apparate her to Platform 9 ¾, but Isla forced herself to return her aunt’s hug. The man, if he could dare to call himself that, had appeared at her side her first evening in the manor with a hairbrush in hand. Isla had thrown up all over him. She didn’t know the Light Witch etiquette on the topic, because such knowledge had never been necessary, but Isla wouldn’t let a Light Wizard brush her hair for anything. She still hadn’t forgiven him for assuming he had the right to her magic. She had felt its balance shift as Mother Magic bequeathed it to her cousin, Heir Sirius Black, upon her father’s death.

As long as a Dark Wizard held the right to a Dark Witch’s magic, through brushing her hair, he could siphon it at any time. The longer a witch’s hair grew, the more magic she stored in it. 

Isla’s heart ached at the renewed memory of her father’s loss. Lord Charlus Potter had been powerful on his own; so powerful that he had never needed to bow to the oligarchy. With access to her mother’s magic, as well as her own, Isla had never feared losing her parents. Because only those who followed the correct rituals, and loved and obeyed Mother Magic, received her blessings. In duels, he never lost.

Then a dragon came not to steal a princess, but to leave a pox behind.

“I’ll take you then, dearie. We have to go or we’ll be late!” Euphemia said, before Disapparating with Isla in her arms.

Sound inundated Isla: laughter, weeping mothers, delighted cries as friends reunited, hurried yells and reminders. It was a stark contrast to the near silence of the manor in which she had spent the summer imprisoned.

For the first time in months, Isla breathed a sigh of relief. The wards encasing Platform 9 ¾ were Neutral Magic. She felt, if not safe, at least not stifled any longer. Her parents had been dead six months and three days. She felt safer in public than she did with blood relatives; what a horrible twist her life had taken.

“Here’s your trunk,” Fleamont said, before handing her the shrunken object. Isla placed it in her pocket for later, with a reminder to cleanse it; she didn’t want even the smallest remnants of his Light Magic around the items she stored in it. Her ritual robes and jewels were within, and she couldn’t chance them becoming corrupted by negative energy.

“Thank you, Uncle Fleamont,” Isla replied. Courtesy and kindness, she reminded herself. They were oft repeated words when it came to her aunt and uncle. They weren’t bad people, per se, they just weren’t her type of people. They weren’t Dark; they didn’t understand her in the slightest.

“Welcome, squirt.” He grinned at her as if he expected one in response. Isla had no idea why he would. Then Fleamont shattered the foundation of her world for a second time within seven months. “Keep an eye out for owls! Some presents should be headed your way,” he ended in a faux whisper and winked at her.

“I beg your pardon?” He couldn’t possibly mean that the way it sounded.

Euphemia slapped Fleamont on the shoulder. Isla took an instinctive step backward at the gesture. Her horror grew each time she witnessed such things between them. Even in jest, her parents never hit each other. Such casual violence between people who professed to love each other was frightening. How were Light Magic wizards and witches so depraved?

“The courtships were supposed to be a secret, Flea!” Euphemia grumbled.

“Courtships? Plural?” Isla croaked, and it was a croak, much to her embarrassment.

He couldn’t have, could he? Had her Uncle Fleamont truly given more than one wizard the right to court her at the same time? What Dark Wizard would dare sink—Merlin, that was just it, wasn’t it? It wasn’t a Dark Wizard. Her uncle had agreed to allow Light Wizards—still plural—to compete for her hand. Isla pressed a palm to her lips at the realization, even though she had skipped breakfast. If she hadn’t, she would have vomited all over her uncle again.

Tears stabbed at her eyes. Isla had never been so humiliated in her entire life. She had never felt more disrespected, not even when Lily Evans had attempted to borrow her hairbrush (it wasn’t the Mudblood’s fault she was ignorant; and Heir Prince had ensured she received an appropriate apology after Evans complained to him).

“Isn’t it wonderful?”

Isla spun around and stalked away, heart galloping in her chest like a herd of wild Abraxans. No, it wasn’t wonderful. It was a nightmare she hadn’t even conceived until the words had just spilled from her relatives’ lips, fully birthed and weaned. Hypothetically, until she was seventeen years old, Fleamont could sell her to any Light Wizard that caught his fancy.

She couldn’t allow that.

Her parents would do more than roll over in their graves. They might welcome the chance to return as Inferi, regardless of how undignified that was, just to murder her aunt and uncle.

“Isla, how are you?”

“Lady Isla, my condolences on—”

“You’ve been holed away all summer, and—”

“May I help you, Lady Potter?” Heir Lucius Malfoy asked when she stopped beside him. His hand was on his younger sister—Amalia’s—shoulder.

“I beg your pardon for interrupting your farewell, Heir Malfoy, but I require your assistance.” Isla accepted reality. Hers had just changed again; it was about to alter even more. Though the main branch of the Potter family had been Dark since Iolanthe Peverell bonded with the, then, Heir of the Family, they had never bowed to the Dark Lord. They had never bothered to dabble in the Court. They were content to live in their Unplottable manors inventing potions that changed the entire wizarding world. “Will you escort me to see him? Please.”

Lucius stared over her shoulder. “Your uncle seems displeased to see you speaking with me, Lady Potter.”

A sneer overtook Isla’s face. “My uncle would see me bonded to a Light Wizard.” She was satisfied to see both Amalia and Lucius cringe at her announcement.

He stepped away from his sister and offered Isla his arm. She took it, ignoring her uncle’s shout—whether it was outrage or disbelief or mere shock, she didn’t care. It was the lengthiest Apparation trip she had ever taken. The wards around the Dark Lord’s home were immense.

“All right?” Lucius asked as he steadied her.

“No,” Isla replied. Nothing in her life was all right. Hopefully, the Dark Lord could fix that.

“You’ve never been presented at Court. Your father didn’t even present you as a baby, if memory serves.”

Isla sighed and walked at Lucius’ side toward the imposing manse. It was even more palatial than Potter Manor. The grounds were immaculate. It overflowed of wealth without being gaudy or prissy. She was impressed, despite herself. “Memory serves you well, Heir Malfoy.”

“I’m honored you chose me, then, for your presentation.” It was sincerely said.

“I never wanted this to happen,” Isla whispered. But even as she spoke the words, she knew they were not entirely true. Oh, she hadn’t ever wanted to meet him in such circumstances; no, their meeting had never taken place like this in her countless daydreams. Isla had built a fantasy world around winning the Darkest heart of all.

It had been a foolish pursuit.

Sirius had warned her again and again not to obsess over an idea, over someone she had never even met. The Blacks, better than anyone else, knew the effects of a broken heart.

So Isla had fought against her own mind and imagination. It hadn’t been easy. But, in the end, she persevered. She put away childish imaginations and hopes. Isla banished all chance of ever being presented to the Dark Lord from her mind. 

Now, two years later, her untouchable dream was becoming her reality.

“Hold still,” Lucius ordered. His wand hummed with magic as he Transfigured her clothes. Her mourning robes turned into a set of the finest ebony robes she had ever seen, let alone worn. They felt like gossamer and fairy’s hair. “Perfect.” Lucius smirked, and then he looked away before casting two final spells. The first left her barefoot. The second unraveled her hair. The mass of darkness was proof of her father’s love and care; if Lucius broke protocol to sneak a peek at it, she would kill him where he stood.

Isla prayed for . . . she didn’t know what. 

“Your full name and title?” Lucius queried, gaze still averted as he approached the front door. Isla told him. Lucius stumbled. If he turned around to gawp at her in shock, she wouldn’t be surprised. She would still end his life, though. “Right.” Lucius knocked five times on the door.

It opened with nary a sound. 

Then he stood before her. Not Marvolo Gaunt, her father’s potions partner, not Lord Slytherin, the darling of Wizarding Britain, but the Dark Lord. “Lucius,” he hissed.

Isla shivered, and even though Marvolo wasn’t looking at her yet, she knew he noticed. He wasn’t the type of wizard who missed a single detail. His magic flared out around him, dominant and fierce, and as heady as hers was when she felt secure enough to unbridle it.

Now, a voice whispered in her head.

She dropped the restraints as Lucius began Presenting her. Her magic surged with wild glee, delighting in its unexpected bout of freedom.

“My Lord,” Lucius said, bowing at the waist, then rising, “I Present Isla Iolanthe Potter, Lady Potter, Lady Peverell, High Lady of Eternal Death.”

Marvolo’s eyes fell on her and devoured her. She knelt before him and kissed his proffered hand. “My Lord Darkness,” she breathed against his skin.

He twisted his wrist, cupped her chin, and guided her face up so she could see him. Marvolo brushed the pad of his thumb across her bottom lip before turning to Lucius. “Lady Gaunt, Lady Slytherin, the Dark Lady,” he finished.

Lucius nodded and backed away. “As is your right, my lord. I’ll adjourn now, unless you require my services.” A sharp flick of Marvolo’s finger had Lucius Disapparating in moments.

“You’ll not deny me.” Marvolo’s voice was a soft rasp. Each word sounded like her beloved Dark Magic felt. “You kept me waiting for decades, beloved. I’ll wait no longer.”

Isla hugged the endearment close as he raised her back to her feet. “I’ll not deny you, darling.”

When he drew her into a hug, he was careful. When he claimed her lips, he was gentle. Despite all his desperate wanting, which his magic transmitted to her, he treated her as a precious, fragile treasure.

It was different than before. It was deeper in new ways. But Isla remembered it.

This was belonging. This was family. This was love.

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to make a pairing request/prompt when you leave a review.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [In an Instant](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13151727) by [Eye_Greater_Than_Three](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eye_Greater_Than_Three/pseuds/Eye_Greater_Than_Three)




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